Of a Broken Symphony
by Iris Luna
Summary: Five times Sherlock turned to drugs, and one time he didn't. Warnings for drug use, language, and descriptions of crime scenes. No slash, plenty (and I mean plenty) of feels. Complete for now; may be updated after series four.
1. The First Time

A/N: So after the masterpiece that was the New Year special, the awesome **Shiv** mentioned her need for fics involving Sherlock's drug use. Her wish is my command!

This will be in the format of an extended '5 +1' fic, and there will be angst and there will be feels (and probably the death of a non-vital character in the last chapter) so you have been warned! No slash of any description though; I must be ill... Oh yes, and obviously there will be drug use and swearing! Hopefully the next part will go up next weekend (exam week! YAY!); the more feedback I get, the more people I feel I'd let down by updating late, so the more likely it is I'll finish before Christmas.

Anyway, the boring bit's over! Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing. Though I could just eat a Double Decker...

* * *

The First Time

The first time, the very first time, Sherlock turned to drugs to solve his problems, he wasn't even an adult.

-x- ]=[ ]=[ -x-

Michael Green and his associates were always easy to identify, even with the pretentious uniforms that were standard issue for any teenage boy in an expensive boarding school. They were the _really_ rich boys, the sons of important people whom the school board wouldn't dream of expelling. Green's gang walked around with their ties undone, their sleeves rolled up; they sat at the back of the classrooms eating sandwiches pilfered from the kitchen; they lounged in the copse at the edge of the grounds flicking lighters and smoking Marlboro's. All of the younger boys thought they were the bee's knees, and the prefects spent most of their time firmly steering them in the right and proper direction.

Sherlock didn't need steering. He thought Michael Green _et al_ were a bunch of mindless idiots and had far better things to do than join the rest of his dormitory in wishing they could get away with never turning up to Ancient Greek. Sherlock didn't go to prayers without his waistcoat, or eat Double Deckers in English Lit. He didn't try to sneak out and by cigarettes (not yet, anyway), or blag them off an upperclassman. Sherlock didn't have time.

He was reading about murders in the newspaper, looking up ciphers in the library, asking his Chemistry teacher endless questions about the viscosity of various bodily fluids. Occasionally he was even doing his homework, if Mycroft threatened to write to Mummy. Yet he knew more about Green's gang than anyone else in his year; knew that when they weren't in class, or sprawled around the grounds, they were probably holed up in the belfry smoking a lot more than tobacco.

There came a day in Sherlock's second year where his Astronomy teacher found the open copy of _Great Unsolved Murders of the 19_ _th_ _Century_ on his lap beneath his desk and threw him out of the classroom. This in itself wasn't unusual, and as it was a nice day (i.e. not raining) Sherlock decided to continue his research in the secret nook behind the herb garden. After slipping through the gap between hedge and wall, he was surprised to find three members of Green's entourage, who noticed his arrival but continued to pass around their spliff. The blonde investment banker's son (Sherlock could tell by his watch) in the far corner slowly blew smoke rings at him before stating the obvious.

"Hey Benjy, it's a kid."

"No shit," 'Benjy', the son of an oil baron, replied.

"Quite," said Sherlock.

"The fuck do you want?"

It was Banker Boy again; the third student appeared to have passed out (though death was also an option, Sherlock didn't really care).

"From you? Nothing."

"Well fuck off then," Banker Boy said, taking a drag from the spliff Benjy offered him.

Sherlock stayed where he was.

"Why are you smoking cannabis? Do you realise it increases your chances of dying a horrible drawn-out death from lung cancer or developing a psychotic illness such as schizophrenia, particularly when smoked during adolescence when the brain is still developing? Not," he frowned, glancing into an open satchel by his foot, "that you'd be particularly bothered about the loss of your mental faculties. I can't imagine you had many to begin with. And by the number of condoms you're carrying, I doubt you'd be overly perturbed by a reduced sperm count either."

Benjy and Banker Boy looked at him like he'd grown a third head (by Sherlock's judgement, they'd already had enough to make it highly probable that they thought he had two).

"You wanna know why we smoke pot?" asked Banker Boy.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "That was my question, yes."

"It chills you out," said a soft voice. "I'm, like, so chilled right now… I could be a fridge."

 _Oh_ , thought Sherlock, _so he's not dead then_. _Yet_.

Benjy laughed and kicked the third student in the head.

"Nah," said Banker Boy, "it's an elixir. Soon as you take a drag, all your problems go away."

"Don't be absurd," said Sherlock.

Banker Boy shook his head.

"C'mon kid, do I look like I've got problems? No," he went on, before Sherlock could answer to the contrary, "because I don't. Now Benjy here, he had problems. But now he doesn't, 'cause _this_ " -he waved the spliff lazily- "made him not give a shit. Not. A. Flying. Fuck."

Banker Boy took another drag, then looked Sherlock in the eye with a stare that seemed surprisingly coherent:

"Now piss off."

Sherlock left, but he didn't forget.

-x- ]=[ ]=[ -x-

Three years later, exams (important, career-vital exams) loomed over Sherlock's horizon (and Mycroft's, not that Sherlock could give two hoots about Mycroft). One of these exams was English Lit. In Sherlock's mind it was pointless (what was the use in understanding symbolism in a dreary novel from several hundred years ago?); according to Mycroft, Mummy, and, it seemed, the rest of bloody England, it was Very Important. Needless to say, Sherlock was failing it. Badly.

The deputy headmaster took him aside.

"Look, Holmes… I know that you struggle with literature, but you have to pass these exams."

"Why?" Sherlock asked.

The deputy headmaster sighed.

"The school doesn't allow students to continue education past 16 unless they achieve at least a C in certain subjects, no exceptions. Unfortunately English Literature is one of them. Holmes…" he took in Sherlock's 'so what?' expression, " _Sherlock_. You're a bright lad. Don't throw away your future over two measly exams, simply because you believe the subject to be unworthy of your attention!"

In the end, Sherlock was forced (by both family and faculty) into extra study sessions, consoled only by the knowledge that the useless data about 'similes' and 'juxtaposition' would be deleted the moment the second exam was over.

There were six other students in the sessions, which Sherlock liked to think of as E. ., or 'else' (as in, "pass English Lit. or else"- Mycroft). Two were foreign, one dyslexic, and the rest were heirs to the legacy of Michael Green (the boy in question having long since left the school), so their presence was easily and logically explained. To Sherlock, so was his own: he had been forced, against his will, to undertake examinations in the most pointless, boring subject in the British education system, and had until now refused to dedicate any of his valuable time to it. However, the rest of the school, being dull and unobservant, hadn't realised this.

Sherlock had never been one to make friends, and there were very few people he would even class as acquaintances. Not like Mycroft, who had the entire staff (and board of governors) in his pocket. Sherlock was different, and happy to be so, which only increased the gulf between him and the rest of the student body- something Sherlock considered a bonus.

Even so, he'd be lying if he said it didn't irk him when his peers would call him 'freak' and 'psycho', or pretend to ward him off with garlic in the corridors, or how the first years would run away from him, having been told he'd use them in his experiments. So every time, he'd turn around and make deductions about them, squeeze out all of their darkest secrets and air them out like dirty laundry. He'd wipe the smirks off their smug faces, the smirks that said "oh, aren't I clever", and smirk at _them_ instead, so everyone would know that he, Sherlock, was the clever one. They were just idiots, just silly little boys.

Sherlock always won.

Then the rest of the school found out that Sherlock was failing English Lit., the subject that practically everyone else thought was a piece of cake. The taunts changed.

Now they'd call _him_ an idiot, and ask him to spell ridiculously long words (which didn't even make sense; that was English _Language_ ). When they discovered he knew nothing about basic astronomy or politics, they taunted him with planets and prime ministers as well. And when Sherlock had had enough, when he turned around and laid out their secrets for all to see, now their smirks only grew:

"Yeah, well, at least _I'm_ not going to be kicked out of school."

"At least I'm intelligent enough to come back next year."

"At least I'm not a failure, unlike some people, _freak_. I bet your whole family's ashamed of you."

Sherlock was clever. He was _much_ cleverer than them. But no one else could see this, not now. He'd lost his only weapon, his only mask against the world.

-x- ]=[ ]=[ -x-

At the top of the deconsecrated church (now used for storage) was a trapdoor up into the old belfry. It was quiet up there; he could think, and he needed to think. He had to show them that he was clever, that he was _better_.

The belfry was empty these days; the successors to Green's gang preferring the old toilets near the chapel, cordoned off due to asbestos (handy for escaping prayers). Sherlock often went up there at night, so much so that he'd dragged an old mattress and sheets up the 105 steps and stolen some candles from Sunday mass to give him enough light to read by.

He wasn't alone up there. The occasional bird swooped in, sometimes a bat, and there was no shortage of spiders. All preferable company to a dormitory full of idiot humans. One particular night, as he watched the candles flicker in the light March breeze, he noticed a spider crawling up the wall. Not an unusual sight, until it crawled _into_ the wall. Suddenly intrigued, Sherlock knelt down and ran his long fingers over the stone where the spider had vanished. Unlike the rest of the stones, there was no surround of thick cement, and looking closer Sherlock could see scratches and dents coating the edges. He pulled out his penknife and gently worked the stone free.

Behind it was a small cubbyhole between the outer and inner belfry walls. Sherlock picked up a candle and shone it into the gap. Its light fell on a battered metal biscuit tin.

After replacing the candle, Sherlock carefully extracted the box, and from the branding discerned that it couldn't have been there for more than five years; probably less. He eased off the lid, not ashamed to say that he was surprised by the contents.

Drugs. Cannabis, by the smell of it probably the stronger sinsemilla, and by the look of it, still smoke-able. A packet of tobacco, and all of the paraphernalia required to assemble a joint. And, well wrapped in a corner of the tin, one small rock of crack cocaine, along with two brand-new hypodermics. Altogether, Sherlock's mind supplied, a street value of less than a hundred pounds- inconsequential enough to have been left behind in the former owner's graduation or move to the toilets.

Sherlock sat back and stared at his find. A voice echoed in the back of his mind. _Takes away all your problems_.

 _No_ , thought Sherlock. _No, it doesn't. It just stops you caring about how you're making even more for yourself._

 _But_ , said another voice, _you've already got a packet of cigarettes in your pocket. It's not much of a stretch. Think of it as making your own cigarettes; just tobacco and a few impurities…_

"NO," he said aloud, "no. It's bad for thinking."

 _How would you know? Have you tried it? You're not like everyone else._

"I have to pass my exams."

 _You're failing English. Doesn't matter if you fail the rest as well, you're not coming back here anyway._

"I won't fail it."

 _You will. You're a freak. You're a failure-_

Sherlock slammed a fist against the floor. He looked at the tin.

Half an hour later, he put the joint to his lips and took his first drag.

-x- ]=[ ]=[ -x-

Mycroft Holmes was a very busy man, even if he was only eighteen. He had his Head Boy duties, he had to keep up to date with political affairs (especially those that the media wasn't privy to), make sure that everyone in his pocket stayed right where they were, pass his exams, and look out for Sherlock. It was no surprise that this last item was occasionally neglected, especially when Sherlock insisted in resisting Mycroft's every effort at being a good elder brother.

It wasn't Mycroft's fault that Sherlock took a friendly request to actually attend the extra tutoring sessions he'd been assigned as an insult. Neither was it his fault that he was stressed, and less amenable to Sherlock's retorts. That didn't mean he wouldn't blame himself for the resulting argument.

After all, he was the one who told Sherlock to shut up and listen for once. Who told him that unless he put in the work, he would fail his exams; he would be thrown from the school. It was Mycroft who answered Sherlock's assertion that his brother wouldn't let that happen, through bribery or blackmail, with a raised voice.

"Sherlock, you have to learn! I won't always be here to sort out your problems for you. If you fail these exams, you're on your own; I'm not picking up your mess for you, not this time. If they don't let you back in September, so be it. I'm tired of babysitting you. If you ruin your future, you've only yourself to blame."

Sherlock had walked straight out of his rooms, and Mycroft's… _associates_ had informed him that his brother hadn't attended a single one of his classes for the rest of the day. This was nothing unusual; Sherlock always liked to sulk after he lost.

As the evening drew on, Mycroft began to regret his words. Sherlock was his brother; he had responsibilities. And he was sensitive, the Redbeard Incident had proven that. Sighing, Mycroft put down the file he had been reading, and decided he ought to apologise. Perhaps then Sherlock would see that he only had his best interests at heart.

Sherlock wasn't in his dormitory (not that Mycroft really expected him to be; his brother didn't find Normal People conducive to sulking), so Mycroft strolled across the grounds towards the old church. Rounding the poplars that concealed it from the rest of the school buildings, he was encouraged by the faint light in the belfry, and quickly slipped inside the unlocked door.

As he neared the trapdoor at the top of the stairs, he called out.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, it's your brother. Look, I…"

He trailed off once he had the trapdoor open and could see beyond, frozen in place by shock and horror.

Sherlock was lying curled on a thin mattress on the far side of the tower, surrounded by candles, a myriad of small objects strewn haphazardly before him. Mycroft didn't need his ridiculously high IQ to know what they were for, not when combined with his brother's trembling and the stench of tobacco and marijuana in the air.

It was a small whimper that unfroze Mycroft's legs, and later he couldn't remember moving to kneel beside the mattress, careful not to crush anything on the floor.

"Sherlock? Sherlock!" He shook his shoulder firmly. "What have you taken?"

No response.

"Sherlock, answer me, what have you taken?!"

Rewarded only with a few gasps a small sob, Mycroft cast his eyes around the room, finally focusing on the discarded hypodermic syringe and yellow-white residue on the stone floor.

"Was it just cocaine? Sherlock, did you take anything else or was it only cocaine? Sherlock!"

"…Just… Just cocaine…"

Mycroft exhaled in relief.

"What about the marijuana?"

Sherlock said nothing.

"Sherlock, have you taken marijuana?"

Slowly, Sherlock nodded.

"S'afternoon… didn't help…"

"Christ, Sherlock!"

Mycroft moved closer to Sherlock, sweeping all but the candles out of the way now that his surroundings had told him all they could. He put a hand on Sherlock's chin and gently tilted his face towards the light. The sweat on his brow glistened.

"Sherlock, I'm going to run over to the science building, there's a phone in Professor Hartford's office; I'm going to call you an ambulance-"

Suddenly Sherlock's hand shot out and caught Mycroft's wrist.

"Don't."

"Sherlock, I won't be long, I promise."

Sherlock shook his head.

"No ambulance… stay."

"Sherlock…" Mycroft's voice was pained.

Sherlock slowly turned his and locked his shining eyes, pupils wide, with Mycroft's own.

"… _Please_."

Mycroft pursed his lips. Sherlock never said please; not like that anyway, not meaning it, definitely not _begging_ … But this could be serious. Mycroft was no expert on drugs (not like Sherlock, who made criminality his business), but he knew enough to recognise an overdose.

He weighed up his options. On the one hand, leave Sherlock here, alone, probably scared, and fetch trained medical help. On the other, stay with Sherlock, look after him, and see how things progressed.

Mycroft made up his mind. Sherlock wasn't an idiot; Mycroft had to trust that he'd know if this were bad enough to need a hospital. He was also young, and the picture of health. For now, Mycroft would stay with his brother, but if it got worse, Mycroft would run to the science building faster than he ever had in his life.

"Alright… I'll stay."

Sherlock closed his eyes and mouthed a thank you, then laid his head back down on the bundled sheet he was using as a pillow.

Mycroft sat next to him on the mattress, and ran a not entirely steady hand through his little brother's damp curls.

-x- ]=[ ]=[ -x-

Sunrise was often a beautiful sight from the belfry. On a clear day, it was possible to see over the town to the rolling hills and pastures beyond, lit up in pinks and yellows; birds singing and dew glistening. Near the top of a tree, not far away, a sparrow was calling to her young chicks, newly hatched and hungry. Mycroft watched her fly away to fetch their breakfast, then looked back down at his brother.

There had been no need for an ambulance in the end. Within an hour or two, Sherlock had stopped trembling and was sleeping peacefully under Mycroft's blazer. Once it was a reasonable hour, Mycroft would drag him to the nurse (she could be trusted to keep things hush-hush, he'd made sure to get her onside early on in his school career), but for now, Sherlock needed rest. A few minutes later, the boy in question spoke.

"I'm sorry, Mycroft…"

Mycroft paused for a moment, not yet prepared for this conversation.

"For what?" he said at last. Knowing Sherlock, he could be sympathising with some imagined shortcoming of Mycroft's.

"For being a failure."

Mycroft was stunned.

"Sherlock, you're not a failure. You're a genius."

"I'm failing English Lit."

"So was Einstein, and it never did him any harm."

"But if I fail it, I can't come back next year, and if I can't come back, I can't go to university-"

"Of course you're not coming back next year. You're a scientist, not a politician; you should be in a school that reflects that. I've already written to Mummy, given suggestions for suitable establishments. If you fail Literature, you fail it; it won't stop you going to university."

Sherlock looked confused, and it was all wrong.

"But… you said you wouldn't help me anymore. That I was on my own."

Mycroft's stomach dropped.

"Sherlock, listen to me. _I'm_ sorry. I shouldn't have said what I did yesterday. God knows I didn't mean it; I was stressed and I should never have taken it out on you. I never thought you'd… Sherlock, you're my _brother_. I'll always be there for you."

Sherlock slowly sat up but wouldn't meet Mycroft's eyes; instead boring a small hole in the elder Holmes's right ear.

"Do you promise?" His voice was stronger, increasing in both pitch and tempo. "Promise me, Mycroft, promise me because I _can't_ -"

Suddenly he gave a sob, and instantly Mycroft had his arms around him, smelling sweat and cigarette smoke, feeling a wet patch form on his shoulder, blinking to clear his suddenly cloudy vision.

"I promise, Sherlock. I promise."

As the sun rose higher, and the colours of dawn disappeared, Mycroft thought about his brother. About what he'd done, in this beautiful, lonely place, and how, because of who Sherlock was, he'd do it again. Mycroft could talk to him. He could send him to counselling, send him to rehab, send him to _Mummy_ , and it wouldn't matter. Sherlock was Different. He found his home in the darkest crevasses of humanity where the light rarely touched, and he was happy there. And, Mycroft knew, all those who walk in the darkness have a vice. This was Sherlock's.

Finally the sky seemed light enough to call on the nurse. Before Mycroft began what would likely be a hard-won argument (for Mycroft _would_ win), he brushed his thumb across the hand of his brother, who was curled cat-like against his side.

"Sherlock?"

"Mm?"

"Could you promise me something?"

"What?"

Mycroft gripped Sherlock's hand, tighter than he meant to.

"Promise me you'll always make a list. A list of everything you've taken. Please."

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, and it was testament to their relationship at that moment, and to the seriousness of the request, that he didn't ask why Mycroft wasn't ordering him not to do this again, or tell him that he wasn't a child who needed looking after. Instead, he returned his brother's grip.

"I promise."


	2. Almost the Last Time

A/N: It's on time! It's a miracle! This chapter turned out to be a lot longer than I thought, making this story officially the longest thing I've ever written. Let's see if I can keep this up! Anyway, here's Chapter Two; I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it, and I'd love to know what you think!

Disclaimer: I own nothing but my own mistakes.

* * *

Almost the Last Time

It was common knowledge that winters were cold in London. Tourists put on woolly mittens, commuters for once welcomed the heat of the lower Tube tunnels, the poor chose between heating and dinner, and the destitute dreamed of a thicker sleeping bag. But while the grit lorries stood on standby and the Met Office kept their eyes peeled for signs of snow, central London basked in the lights and songs of Christmas.

At about half-past four on Christmas Eve, a tall, thin man in a charcoal hoody could be seen picking his way through the throngs of last-minute shoppers on Oxford Street. Unlike the well-laden crowds around him, he carried only a wallet in his shoe, an oyster card in his pocket, and a phone at his ear.

"…I'm sorry, Mummy, but I couldn't possibly make it home for Christmas dinner; I'm far too busy at work… What? Of course I have a 'proper' job, I just don't talk about it all the time. Mycroft doesn't talk about his work… Oh. I see. Well, that has nothing to do with me. Anyway, very sorry, but I have work to do… yes, I'll call you tomorrow. Yes, I promise this time. Merry Christmas Mummy."

Sherlock hung up the phone and shoved it into his pocket.

 _As if I could go home for Christmas_.

Mycroft was a problem he hadn't anticipated. It was much easier for Sherlock to stay away when his brother went along to keep things sweet, and last they'd spoke Mycroft had offered to give Sherlock a lift on Christmas morning (neither wanted to stay too long).

Sherlock crossed the road, narrowly missing the front bumper of a taxi, and glanced at the lights that sparkled in the windows of John Lewis.

Christmas.

 _A pointless excuse for people spending money they don't have and talking to people they don't like._

This would be the third year in a row he'd missed Christmas dinner at the Family Home; he wouldn't be able to escape next year. In fact, he was certain he was only escaping _this_ year because Mummy didn't know where he lived, so couldn't turn up and drag him off by force. And this year, he knew Mycroft couldn't pass on his address, because he didn't have one. Homelessness had its perks.

Of course, Mr and Mrs Holmes could always turn up at the self-storage facility in Battersea that he was using to store his belongings, but as Sherlock wouldn't be there, it wouldn't matter.

Taking a copy of the _Standard_ as he passed, Sherlock entered the Tube station and swiftly swiped himself through the barriers, heading for the Central line. He'd be spending Christmas in an abandoned warehouse in Woolwich, preferably inside his mind palace. A Lithuanian girl had been murdered two weeks ago in Chelsea, and the police were still 'making enquiries'- which meant that they didn't have a clue what they were dealing with. After making a few enquiries himself (and sneaking in to both the crime scene and the morgue), he'd narrowed the suspect pool down to two, and just needed to clarify a few more facts. If he could only work out happened to the necklace…

The train pulled in and Sherlock got on, along with what seemed like half of the borough. The recorded message was just announcing their arrival into Bank when he worked it out.

"The grandmother! Obvious!"

The rest of the carriage seemed a mixture of alarmed and mildly amused (you could always tell the tourists), and the moment the doors opened he hurtled off down the platform.

-x- ]=[ ]=[ -x-

The newly-appointed DI Lestrade of Scotland Yard surveyed the man in front of him with interest.

"So… you're the infamous Sherlock Holmes?"

The man in question scowled.

"'Infamous' implies a negativity that I don't feel is deserved, but yes, I am Sherlock Holmes."

"I see. And… you say you've solved the Czarnecki case?"

Sherlock must have sensed the scepticism in his voice, as he curled his lip.

"Yes, because I _have_ solved it. It was obvious really; Demirhan was blackmailing Czarnecki for sex, and when she threatened to go to the police he strangled her. There were traces of lime at the scene which could only have come from a building site using limestone, _not_ lime mortar as your forensics team wrongly concluded. The only such site in London at the time was in Lewisham, and Demirhan happened to be working on it.

"Also, the pattern of bruising around Czarnecki's throat is consistent with that of a jewellery chain, but no necklace was found on the body. Now, in her My Space pictures Czarnecki was wearing a pendant, looked old; Demirhan's grandmother has exactly the same pendant, said he gave it to her as an early Christmas present. The chain matches the bruising on the body. Clearly Demirhan took the pendant when he fled the scene, knowing that it probably had his DNA all over it. He thinks it's valuable so doesn't throw it away, but it's too soon to sell it and he can't keep it in his flat with the police snooping around, so he gives it to his grandmother. Old lady, only grandchild? Of course she'll keep a gift from him safe. Case closed, Demirhan's the murderer."

Sherlock leant back in his chair and crossed his arms.

It took Lestrade a moment to process everything that had just come from the mouth of a man who, had he passed him in the street, he would have put money on having an ASBO. His first thought was that this man was a genius, but it was his second that got the honour of verbalisation.

"Hang on… how the hell did you know about the bruising? And the grandmother?"

"Not important. I've told you who the killer is; arrest him. That is your job, isn't it?"

Lestrade was taken aback.

"I can't… Holmes-"

"Sherlock, please."

"- _Sherlock_ ," Lestrade shook his head, "I can't just arrest someone, with no evidence, because some member of the public who wants to play detective says so!"

"The evidence is there; I've told you where to find it, you simply need to go and collect it."

Lestrade rubbed a hand over his eyes. This was the last thing he needed. He could remember his predecessor's parting words so clearly:

" _Oh, Gregory, one more thing. There's a young man, Sherlock Holmes, fancies himself a bit of a sleuth; particularly interested in murders, the grislier the better. He'll come to you soon enough, likely as not, saying he's solved some case or other. Don't pay too much heed to what he says, it'll only encourage him. And for God's sake, don't let the press get hold of it. You know how Murdoch's lot like to spin things: it'll be on the front page that Scotland Yard's murder squad needs help from a drugged-up vagrant, and before you know it you'll be clearing out your desk. Best not to get involved, son."_

Lestrade had only just started this job, and so far things had been pretty good, even if he was stuck in his office doing paperwork at gone six on Christmas Eve. He didn't want to give it up yet.

Steadying his resolve, he placed his hands flat on his desk and addressed his companion.

"Look, Sherlock, I appreciate that you're trying to help, I do. But I can't allow you to interfere with police matters. I don't know how you got access to our files, but doing so was against the law, and I would be well-advised to bring charges against you. On top of that, gathering your own evidence may have put this entire case in danger of being thrown out of court, letting a dangerous killer go free. I should have you arrested for attempting to pervert the course of justice. As it is, I'm going to let you off with a caution." Lestrade sighed. "I understand that you're concerned, but you need to trust the police to do our jobs. I politely request that you leave the detective work to the _actual_ detectives in future, and I'd better not see you in here again. Now are you going to leave by yourself, or do I need to call someone to escort you from the premises?"

Sherlock looked at him with something more than the expected anger and indignation, then rose from the chair and opened the door with more aggression than Lestrade thought strictly necessary. He paused and glared at Lestrade from the corner of his eye.

"You understand _nothing_."

As the slam of the door behind the enigmatic Sherlock Holmes made his pen pot fall over, Lestrade was struck with the feeling that he may have just made the biggest mistake of his career.

-x- ]=[ ]=[ -x-

The warehouse in Woolwich used to be the local distribution centre for a paint company, until the firm was shut down over a tax evasion scandal. There were still crates of 'Unicorn White' and 'Thistle Violet' strewn about the lower level, so the underclass who had made the warehouse their temporary home tended to spread themselves throughout the office space upstairs.

It had been raided by police at the beginning of the month, which explained why it was far emptier than usual on the night before Christmas. Sherlock had claimed one of the enclosed windowless offices soon after the arrest of the former occupant, which went unchallenged- he had something of a reputation. He'd turned over the wall charts and hung more the same way, the blank white paper now covered in names and addresses. The noticeboard was now half-covered with photographs, half with a map of London speckled with drawing pins, and 'borrowed' police files filled the scratched fibreboard desk. Empty polystyrene cups, plastic bottles and screwed-up balls of paper carpeted the floor, but for the nest of paint-stained sheets in the corner that formed a make-shift bed, added almost as an afterthought. Beside the sheets sat an old biscuit tin, several pens, and a small notepad.

Sherlock himself was sitting cross-legged on top of the desk, flipping through the pages of the _Standard_ like a man possessed. He was looking for a case: an unexplained disappearance, an unsolvable murder, a strange occurrence; anything, _anything_ , to relieve the crushing boredom.

An armed robbery in Slough- _obvious, an insurance scam_ ; an absconded prisoner- _in the New Forest with his ex-wife_ ; an arson in Brixton- _teenagers, who else would try to torch a school gym_ ; a stolen Crufts-winning St Bernard-

Sherlock balled-up the newspaper and threw it across the room, then got up and started pacing. Not a single case, and no hope of another until Boxing Day: there were no papers on the 25th, and aside from stalking the police (too risky; the last thing he wanted was having to call Mycroft to bail him out of the cells) or using an internet café or library (both closed), that was his main source of news.

No cases. Nothing to think about, nothing to keep him busy, not for more than 24 hours. No cases.

He was sweating, and his hands were shaking. _No cases_.

Sherlock sat down heavily on top of the sheets and pulled first the tin, then the notepad, towards himself.

-x- ]=[ ]=[ -x-

Christmas. A time for people to be at home, surrounded by those they love.

 _Chance would be a fine thing_ , thought Mycroft.

It was now well past ten o'clock, and he was still sitting at his polished walnut desk, waiting for a phone call from Taipei, the contents of which he then had to pass on to the Embassy in Ankara before he could go home. And then tomorrow, instead of eating roast turkey with the rest of the Holmes clan, he'd be making the final arrangements for his flight to the state of Turkey on the morning of the 26th.

Mycroft sipped the tea his assistant had brought him an hour ago and winced at the temperature. He was tempted to call for another, but didn't want to contemplate being in the office long enough to drink it.

Sighing, he placed the cup back on its saucer, and was just reaching for a custard cream when both of his phones, desk and mobile, rang at once.

Amused, and thinking that phone calls were comparable to buses, he picked up his mobile, intending to merely check the caller ID before taking the call from Taipei. He was startled to see the name 'Sherlock' blazoned across the screen. His brother hated phone calls; if he had to speak to Mycroft, he always sent a text. A sick feeling rising in his chest, he ignored the desk phone and answered his mobile.

"Sherlock?"

There was no reply.

"Sherlock, are you there?"

Again, no reply, but Mycroft increased the volume on his phone until he could hear the dim sounds of breathing.

"Sherlock, answer me, are you alright?"

After a few more tense seconds, there was finally a faint response.

"…Myc…"

It was little more than a whine, and Mycroft's blood ran cold.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, can you tell me where you are?"

Nothing.

Mycroft stood and grabbed his overcoat from its stand, struggling to put it on without dropping the phone.

"Sherlock, it's alright, I'm on my way. I'll find you, I'm coming; just hold on."

With that he hung up and marched out of his office, not bothering with his scarf or umbrella. He didn't stop to explain to his assistant what was going on, instead calling out to her as he passed.

"I have to leave; private business. Call Taipei and have them contact Ankara direct, then warn Wilkinson I might not be able to make Istanbul; I'll let him know for definite myself in the morning. And have Terrance bring the car around immediately!"

As he hurried down the hallway, Mycroft was already dialling another number on his phone. His call was answered as he reached the stairs, which he took two at a time.

"Yes, I need a track on the location of a phone; designation AG-251, security code alpha-Charlie-November-foxtrot. Fast as you can."

He waited until he had an address, in Woolwich of all places, before thanking them and ending the call. A car had pulled in front of the building, and Mycroft got into the back, passing the address to the driver and making a plea for swiftness, legality be damned.

As they moved as fast as possible through streets dotted with revellers, Mycroft tapped the fingers of his left hand anxiously on his knee, while those of his right were near-white as they gripped his phone, itching to call an ambulance. Yet despite everything, despite the unusual phone call and the day and the sound of his brother's voice, Mycroft refrained. It nearly killed him to do so, but he did it anyway, because he knew how much Sherlock hated hospitals, and hoped in his heart that the call was just a product of drug-induced confusion, and not a cry for help.

It was a game that he and Sherlock had played as boys, whenever there was something they didn't like, or were scared of. They'd act like whatever it was were impossible and non-existent, and because that were often the case (monsters don't usually have a tendency for hiding under beds and eating your toes in the night), they thought it worked. Of course, when they got older, and their fears stopped being imaginary, they realised its pointless futility and the importance of preparing for the worst. Yet it was a game they were both still guilty of playing when something hurt to think of, like their grandfather's death, or cousin's leukaemia.

They hadn't wanted to believe their grandfather would die, so they hadn't visited. They (especially Sherlock) hadn't wanted to think of their boisterous, game-for-a-laugh cousin quietened by disease, so instead of get-well cards, they (Mycroft, anyway) had sent the usual birthday gifts of alcohol and sports kit.

Now, Mycroft couldn't bear to think of his brother in a condition that would necessitate an ambulance, so he didn't call one.

Part of him knew that he'd probably regret it, that it was probably a mistake and a dangerously immature decision, but the rest of him refused to listen.

Mycroft was jolted from his musings when the car pulled into an industrial estate by the river, and stopped in front of a pair of padlocked gates, behind which rose a large warehouse, daubed all-over with graffiti. As he was debating how best to get in, his driver, Terrance, opened the glass partition.

"One moment, sir."

With that, he got out of the car, picked the lock with ease, then returned and drove through the gates.

"Thank you, Terrance. If you could park facing the exit, that would be wonderful."

"Of course, sir."

Mycroft reached under the front passenger seat and removed the small loaded handgun that was kept there. He doubted he'd need to use it, but he was still adamantly denying that Sherlock-

Well, he wasn't ruling out kidnapping, anyway.

After checking the safety, he slipped the gun into the pocket of his suit jacket, then got out of the car and headed towards the warehouse, trying to stay calm and keep his head. As expected, both the main door and metal goods shutter were firmly secured, so he walked round to the back of the building where a fire exit stood ajar. He sidled through and found himself in a concrete stairwell. Hearing muted noise from above, he climbed upwards. Through the fire door at the top was a large space broken up by faux-wood office dividers, with a few doors leading off at either end.

Mycroft moved out into the space, his breath hitching as he found figures sprawled out under many of the desks or hunched together around candles. Not a kidnapping. A drug den. He made his way through them as fast as he dared, looking for anything familiar. Sherlock had to be there somewhere, and Mycroft had to find him, and soon.

Most of the figures ignored him completely, but a few watched him pass, and quickly Mycroft became aware that he was leaving a trail of whispers in his wake. Finally he rounded a corner to find his path blocked by a thick-set man in a tracksuit, his hood pulled low over his eyes.

"You a copper?"

Mycroft shook his head.

"No."

"Whatcha doin' here then?"

The man pulled something from his pocket, and Mycroft was momentarily unable to answer when he saw the unmistakeable glint of a blade in the candlelight.

"See," the man went on, "we don't get so many of the well-dressed type round here. Not really their scene, y'know. So when a guy like you does come sniffing about… there's usually a bit of trouble."

"No trouble," Mycroft said, his throat dry. "I'm looking for my brother. Sherlock."

The man paused.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes."

"…And you're deffo not the old bill?"

Mycroft's fingers twitched. They could be running out of _time_. When the man started up again, any patience Mycroft had evaporated.

"Cos, you look like you-"

"For Heaven's sake, _where's my brother_?"

Only when the man took a step back and pointed to a door on the far wall did Mycroft realise he'd pulled out his gun, by which point he was beyond caring. He near on ran to the door and wrenched it open.

Sherlock was sitting slumped against the wall, the phone that had clearly fallen from his limp hand bathed in the light of the candle that stood atop an achingly familiar metal tin, a hypodermic lying carelessly next to it.

Mycroft had a horrible sense of déjà vu as he immediately descended on his brother, calling his name, checking his breathing, feeling for a pulse. Finding one, he instead cast around for The List. There had to be a list, if there wasn't-

A notepad.

He frantically flipped it open, the artificial calm from before vanishing now that he had Sherlock there in front of him, unconscious. There on the first page was the current date, followed a time (not long before Sherlock had called) and a list of substances and quantities. Three cigarettes in 90 minutes, a cheap cup of coffee at half-past seven… and enough heroin to easily constitute an overdose.

Mycroft moved his attention back to Sherlock and took stock of more than just the basic life signs. Slow pulse, very slow breathing. He shook his brother's shoulder, hard.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me?"

The only response was Sherlock's head lolling lifelessly to the side.

"Sherlock!"

Nothing.

Now properly panicked, Mycroft moved to call an ambulance, before realising it would be too slow and cursing his earlier stupidity. Instead, he shoved the notepad, gun and Sherlock's phone into his pockets and carefully slung his brother's limp form over his shoulder. He temporarily allayed his pain at how light Sherlock was by assuring himself that were he a healthy weight, he wouldn't be able to lift him at all.

Mycroft walked out of the office and over to the stairs as quickly as he could, ignoring the eyes that followed them from the building. By the time they emerged into the chill night air, Mycroft's muscles were burning, though he bore it gladly as penance for his terrible oversight. When they came in view of the car, Terrance rushed out and helped to carry Sherlock the rest of the way, laying him gently on the backseat. Mycroft got in after him and knelt in the foot-well, gasping for breath, shrugging off his coat to use as a blanket.

"Nearest hospital, fast as you can." He didn't have it in him to be embarrassed by the desperation in his voice.

Mycroft dimly registered that Terrance had replied, but his attention as the car roared into life was entirely on Sherlock. He mechanically replaced the gun beneath the seat, then placed a hand on Sherlock's neck, feeling his pulse beneath his shaking fingers and willing it onwards as they sped towards the hospital.

He wasn't even aware that he was chanting a mantra of ' _please, please_ ' under his breath, or that he was crying, because although he told himself that his little brother was only sleeping, Sherlock was as pale and as still as a corpse.

x- ]=[ ]=[ -x-

There was something in his nose.

That was the first thing Sherlock was aware of, followed by pressure on his thumb and an incessant beeping.

He sluggishly cracked open an eye, then shut it again quickly against the harsh fluorescent lights.

A hospital, then.

The soft sound of carols could be heard amongst the hushed voices and muted squeaks that one normally associates with hospitals, and gradually Sherlock's mind supplied the necessary data to fill in the gaps.

Scotland Yard. The newspaper. The heroin. The… phone call to Mycroft?

He vaguely remembered pressing the speed dial once he realised he might have misjudged the dosage, but nothing after that.

Again, he opened his eyes, blinking to adjust to the light, and looked around.

It was an ordinary hospital room, to be expected when your brother practically _was_ the British government. There was the bed, the equipment, the tacky paper chain around the window trying to bring some festive cheer, but failing miserably. And there was Mycroft in his three-piece suit, sitting in the hard plastic visitors' chair, nursing a polystyrene cup of what smelled like disgusting hospital tea, and staring blankly at Sherlock's right hand where it lay upon the clinical blue blanket. There were dark circles around his eyes, and a slight tremor in his fingers that told of a lack of sleep and copious amounts of caffeine.

He looked terrible, and Sherlock opened his mouth to tell him as much, but what came out was more of a garbled moan.

Mycroft looked up at him at once.

"Sherlock? Are you alright, do you need anything? I'll get the nurse-"

Sherlock gently shook his head and reached out to grab Mycroft's hand. Mycroft stilled and sank back into the chair he had half-risen from, tangling his fingers together with Sherlock's before the latter could pull away.

"God, Sherlock… You could have died. If you hadn't called me, if I hadn't got there so quickly-" He broke off, tightening his grip. "You nearly _died_."

Sherlock swallowed, unsettled by the catch in Mycroft's voice and suddenly feeling like a teenager again.

"…Myc-roft…"

His mouth was dry and his throat felt like sandpaper but the name did the trick, as Mycroft seemed to regain some of his composure and loosened his hold of Sherlock's hand.

"You…" Mycroft cleared his throat. "You overdosed on heroin. The doctor said that knowing what you'd taken, and how much, probably saved your life. It was close."

Sherlock nodded weakly.

"…Shouldn't've happened. Hadn't taken any for a few days; case. Tolerance was low… I f'got."

Mycroft shut his eyes.

"You forgot. Sherlock, for a man who's supposed to be a bloody genius you are _unbelievably_ stupid."

Sherlock licked his lips.

"You haven't told Mummy?"

Mycroft dropped his hand and ran it through his own hair, then gave a humourless chuckle that sounded more like a sob.

"Of course I haven't. She'd kill us both. Christ, Sherlock, what am I going to do with you?"

"What d'you mean?" Sherlock said, frowning.

"The drugs. The… living on the streets, meddling with 'cases' you find in the newspapers. It can't go on Sherlock. We both know it can't."

"It can-"

"It _can't_." Mycroft sounded like a teacher scolding a naughty child, and that thought alone was enough to put Sherlock's hackles up. "I refuse to let you wind up dead in a ditch somewhere."

"No ditches in London."

Mycroft gave him a sharp look.

"This isn't a joke, Sherlock. This is your _life_ ," he hissed, "and I won't let you throw it away. Not anymore."

"Is this an ' _intervention_ '?" Sherlock spat, with as much venom as he could muster.

"If you like." Mycroft looked Sherlock in the eye, and he looked so incredibly tired that Sherlock felt his anger fade, to be replaced by a horrible and inexplicable sense of guilt and shame. Mycroft shouldn't look like that.

Mycroft finished the rest of his tea and placed the empty cup on the nightstand beside what Sherlock recognised as his own notepad and mobile phone.

"Once the doctors agree to discharge you, I'm bringing you back to my flat. My assistant's setting up the spare room as we speak, and I've sent a few of my people to retrieve your belongings from the warehouse. Needless to say," he went on, "certain items will not be among them."

There was no need to specify what those items were.

"And then what?" Sherlock asked, his voice cracking.

"I don't know. I suppose we'll see what happens. Though you did have a telephone call from an Inspector Lestrade earlier," Mycroft said, gesturing towards Sherlock's phone. "He seemed to think that the two of you 'got off on a bad foot'; wanted to meet you for coffee."

"Good," Sherlock said, his lips twitching unbidden, "good."

Mycroft gave him a look.

"I know who he is, Sherlock. And I'm almost certain I know what he wants from you. And when the time comes, I will speak to him, and I will make you choose."

"I know."

Mycroft nodded, and gave him a smile marred by sadness.

"Choose wisely, Sherlock. For all our sakes."

Eventually, Sherlock did.


	3. The Time he was Saved

A/N: So here we are, chapter three! Sorry for the delay; real life messed up my timings, but this is a really long chapter so I hope that makes up for it! Thank you as well to everyone who's reviewed, followed or added this to their favourites; it really means a lot!

Also, a few important things to note about this chapter: there's a lot more swearing in it (courtesy of DI Lestrade), a fair amount of blasphemy (ditto), a bit of gore (not too much or I wouldn't cope with it myself), and mentions of suicide, as well as the usual drug usage. If you can deal with all that, then happy days.

On with the show!

Disclaimer: nothing belongs to me, especially not McVities (mmm, Hobnobs...)

* * *

The Time he was Saved

Everyone had a breaking point, and Richard Stanley had finally reached his.

It wasn't the drugs that were the problem; God knows Richard had dabbled in his youth, and Sherlock Holmes certainly wasn't his only tenant with an illegal habit. He was pretty sure that the brothers in his Clapham flat were actually growing their own in the bathroom.

No, it wasn't the drugs. And he could even cope with some of the less savoury business; the false teeth that blew up the microwave, the red paint splashed across the living room (apparently an investigation into 'patterns of blood splatter'), and even the pointed fingers over the neighbour's missing guinea pig. Let it never be said that Richard wasn't a laidback landlord: in fact, he'd probably dealt with worse.

But this, this took the biscuit. No, scratch that, this took the whole ruddy McVities factory.

He had no choice but to kick him out.

After all, what kind of psychopath kept someone tied up in their airing cupboard?

And not in the kinky way; he asked. Even if the guy had been murdering addicts by messing with their coke, that is not something that is acceptable in polite society.

So in the end, Richard had given Sherlock a choice: sling his hook and never mention his name to anyone, _ever_ (he did not want to get mixed up with the kinds of people Sherlock probably hung out with), or he'd call the police. Unsurprisingly, Sherlock had left.

Only then did Richard discover the human heart in the freezer.

-x- ]=[ ]=[ -x-

Sherlock thought it was a slight overreaction.

After all, he'd explained himself, hadn't he? Cavendish was a tyrant of the worst degree, preying on the vulnerable, coldly murdering his ilk for nothing but his own twisted satisfaction. It was wasteful, and worse than that, it was personal: Sherlock had nearly used the counterfeit cocaine himself. All the police had seen were a spate of overdoses, nothing unusual, and since most of the victims had no family or friends, they hadn't cared to look further. It had reached the point where either Sherlock took matters into his own hands, or several local dealers got lynch-mobbed by their own clients, to whom the identity of the culprit was still unknown. Who could blame Sherlock for choosing the first option?

It wasn't as if he'd _killed_ him, just tried to get enough evidence out of him to warrant a police investigation; but instead of agreeing that Cavendish deserved all that was coming to him, Stanley had accused Sherlock of psychopathy and forced him to let Cavendish go (Sherlock didn't want to involve Lestrade in this quite yet).

No matter, he'd soon catch up with him again, but honestly, he wished people would read. _Sociopath_. Not difficult.

Also, there was the small matter of Sherlock once again being homeless. Five flats in a little over two years; it was getting ridiculous. He'd thought things were going well with Stanley- this landlord hadn't cared about the paint when Sherlock had promised to redecorate, and seemed to have found the whole business with the microwave quite entertaining, especially when Sherlock had replaced it with a new expensive model (bought with Mycroft's 'borrowed' debit card, naturally). Yet he couldn't cope with a smattering of well-deserved and logical vigilante justice.

Really, normal people were incredibly vexing.

The fact remained, however, that most of Sherlock's belongings had been hastily returned to storage (he was beginning to wonder why he bothered to unbox a lot of it), and he was back on the streets. Of course, he could always book himself into a hotel, but there was the ever-present danger that Mycroft would find out (Mycroft almost always found out), and…

Well, Sherlock wasn't sure exactly what Mycroft would do _this_ time, but he was sure that he wouldn't like it. Though to be fair, when it came to Mycroft he rarely did.

Grimacing, Sherlock finished texting and pressed 'send' on his phone. A reply in assent to his suggestion was quick to arrive, and, surmising that Cavendish had had enough time by now to get over to his 'secret' bolt-hole in Greenwich, he got up off the bench he'd been sitting on for the past hour, ready to go and flag down a cab.

He had a murderer to catch.

Again.

-x- ]=[ ]=[ -x-

In the end, there hadn't been much catching for Sherlock to do, just plenty of chasing, though that had been the plan all along. The moment Cavendish caught sight of him, he bolted, and his asthma combined with the weight of Sherlock's overnight bag (the basic essentials for keeping up the appearance that he had somewhere to live- Mycroft's spies were everywhere) made them well-matched. Sherlock chased him all the way into his old territory in Woolwich, until he had Cavendish cornered in a recently blocked-off alleyway.

That was the point at which the local users stepped in, having been notified by Sherlock that the man they sought would soon be heading their way.

It was also the point at which Sherlock walked away, satisfied that justice would be done in one form or another, even if it wasn't exactly to his taste.

Now back to the matter in hand: where to stay while he found himself another flat. He would always be welcome in Woolwich, especially now, but the police would undoubtedly start sniffing around there soon, and his presence would only generate awkward questions. Willingly providing the opportunity for murder was a charge he doubted Lestrade could get him out of, and he did so hate taking favours from Mycroft.

No, Woolwich was out of the question, at least for the next few days. Vauxhall was once a possibility, but criminals often liked to hang about there, and Sherlock had made too many of them his enemies for it to still be a viable option. He needed somewhere secure, somewhere he could use as a base for a week or two without being disturbed, somewhere like-

 _Of course_.

-x- ]=[ ]=[ -x-

Lestrade surveyed the crime scene.

"Right."

He'd seen a lot of crime scenes in his time. There were the weird crimes scenes, and the crime scenes that put you right off your tea when you finally got off duty, and occasionally you even got both at once. This was one of _those_ crime scenes.

Beside him, Donovan looked rather green, while Anderson and the rest of forensics were loitering just in front, as if wondering where to begin.

"Right," Lestrade said again.

As he was trying to think of something more substantive to say, Donovan turned sharply and strode out of the alley, hand clutched to her mouth. Hearing a strange sort of whine, Lestrade looked back to the police cordon, expecting to see a cat, but instead in time to see a young local bobby lunge for the nearest dustbin.

When he turned back again, forensics were finally beginning to pick their way through the scene. Still somewhat at a loss, Lestrade called out to them.

"Anderson, what've we got?"

Anderson visibly swallowed.

"Um… I'm not actually sure."

He stretched out a foot as if to poke at something on the ground, but seemed to think better of it.

Lestrade considered his team, who all looked a mix of bewildered and appalled.

"Right," he said for the final time, "I'm calling Sherlock."

-x- ]=[ ]=[ -x-

Sherlock couldn't say that he was surprised to get the call, but it was an inconvenience. Of course the one investigation he really didn't want to be involved in would have to be into a crime that was right up his street (though 'alley' might be more appropriate, given the circumstances) and had the police even more baffled than usual. He couldn't refuse; that would look far too suspicious, especially to the idiots Lestrade had on his team. So he'd agreed to come, but with the knowledge that he'd have to tread carefully.

Taking a taxi to the crime scene was a necessary precaution- it wouldn't do to have Scotland Yard know that he was already in the area, so walking the short distance from his new temporary address had been out of the question.

The cab pulled up near to the alley Sherlock had cornered Cavendish in the day before, and he paid the driver a generous tip (hinting at the need for discretion was getting more expensive by the day) before striding purposefully towards the police cordon.

"Sherlock Holmes," he announced to the uniform standing guard, "Lestrade called me in."

The policeman gave no sign of recognition ( _must have been newly transferred_ ), just lifted up the tape to allow Sherlock access. The alley itself was so full of people and equipment that it took him a few moments of dodging and weaving before the actual crime scene came into view.

But what a scene it was.

If he hadn't already known practically every nuance of the case, including perpetrator, motive, and means, Sherlock would have been forced to restrain himself from jumping for joy. As it was, he still felt a rush of excitement and intrigue at ascertaining exactly what had occurred after he'd left Cavendish in the (clearly quite capable) hands of his killers. Not to mention there was something rather satisfying in seeing Cavendish's severed head placed slap bang in the middle of a maze of his other body parts.

Lestrade walked over to him.

"Ah, Sherlock. Interesting one, this."

"Clearly, or you wouldn't have called me."

Lestrade ignored him and continued.

"According to forensics it's just the one victim; Caucasian male, mid-to-late thirties. We haven't found any form of ID so we don't know who he was, poor sod, but Anderson reckons dental records should prove conclusive. Not many people have got three gold fillings."

Sherlock smiled slightly.

"I assume you don't need me to tell you how he died?"

Lestrade grimaced.

"I think the cause of death probably speaks for itself. Wouldn't mind knowing what sort of weapon we're looking for, though."

Sherlock bent down next to a severed knee, careful not to let his coat touch the pool of blood surrounding it.

"Ah," he said.

Then the true meaning of his observations hit him, and he couldn't keep the grin off his face as he stood and turned back to Lestrade.

"You're looking for a sharp blade, probably a scalpel, and also a thin-toothed saw; could be your general DIY-shop fare, but judging by the residue on the bone and precision of the cuts I'd say it's more likely an old-fashioned surgical saw, possibly late nineteenth century. Also, there's the blood."

"What about it?"

"It's not his."

"And how the hell do you know that?"

"The coagulation of the blood on the ground doesn't match that of the blood on the body parts. Clearly it was added later for effect."

Lestrade shook his head and frowned.

"Then what are you saying? There wasn't enough blood so the murderer added a bit more?"

"Of course there wasn't enough blood. Whoever cut up the body did so a good while after the victim was killed…"

Sherlock went over to the side of the alley, where a line of dumpsters stood, and opened up the lids of each in turn. Somewhere, there had to be-

"There!"

Sherlock whirled around, pointing into one of the dumpsters. Lestrade joined him and peered inside, where there was a blood-stained man-sized indent in the bin bags.

"Test those bags and I'm sure you'll find the blood matches the victim's," Sherlock said. "The real killer threw the body in here after the murder, then someone else came along and added their own macabre artistic flair."

He strode back towards the police cordon, Lestrade hurrying to keep up.

"Couldn't it just have been the same person?"

"Of course it wasn't."

Aware that Lestrade was no longer following him, Sherlock stopped and turned around. Most of the forensics squad, as well as Lestrade and Donovan, were looking at him with a familiar confusion.

"Oh," he breathed, "I forgot how stupid most of the human race are." Ignoring the looks of indignation, he carried on in his normal timbre. "Look at this place. Just look at it. Severed head surrounded by bits of limb and torso and a pair of feet. What's missing?" He looked around. "Anyone?"

"No hands."

Sherlock raised a hand of his own.

"Who said that?"

One of forensics gave a half-hearted shrug of admittance.

"Finally, someone with a half a brain. No hands," Sherlock repeated. "Everything else is here, meticulously placed, but not the hands, meaning that they were left out deliberately."

"Maybe the killer didn't like hands."

" _Thank_ you, Anderson; your lack of intelligence never ceases to astound me. The killer didn't do this. The hands were taken to send a message, a warning. I know of several criminal gangs who employ similar tactics; leaving out the hands means that the victim had been taking what wasn't rightfully his. Our butcher, or more likely his employer, probably heard on the criminal grapevine that this man had been killed and decided to cash in."

"That doesn't mean the killer didn't do this," Lestrade pointed out. "He could have left the body in the bin and come back to finish the job later on."

"For goodness' sake- it wasn't the same person! None of the users were involved in-"

 _Shit._

He'd got too carried away.

Lestrade's eyes narrowed.

"'Users'? Sherlock- no-one said anything about users. Users of what?"

Sherlock shut his eyes. He had to find a way to get himself out of this, and quickly.

"Cavendish," he murmured.

"What?"

"Cavendish," Sherlock said again, louder this time, opening his eyes but not looking at Lestrade. "The victim's name was Joshua Cavendish, a local drug dealer. I recognise him."

"And you couldn't have told us this before?"

"Does it matter?" Sherlock snapped.

Lestrade sighed.

"So when you said users, you meant drug addicts?"

"Yes. It may have escaped your attention, but there have been multiple overdoses, most fatal, in this area over the past few months. It doesn't take a genius to connect an overdose to a drug, and an unusual overdose to the dealer."

"What, you think one of his customers bumped him off over some dodgy dealing?"

"Probably more than one."

Lestrade ran a hand through his hair.

"Alright, fine. Donovan, look up this Cavendish fellow, see what you can dig up. Anderson, get all the… body parts taken to the lab, I want to know exactly what killed him; and go over that bin for fingerprints and DNA…"

Sherlock left Lestrade barking orders and walked back out of the alley, ducking under the police tape and heading west up the main road. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket and paused outside the off-licence a few metres from the last police car to light it.

He'd slipped up. Now the police were on the trail of the real killers, and if they caught them, it wouldn't be long before Sherlock's name was mentioned. He could have let Lestrade think that the butcher had done the killing, but no, he had to show them all that he was so _bloody_ clever-

Watching as the police floundered around outside the cordon, Sherlock reviewed his mental list of all the problems he now had to solve. First, find a new flat. Second, keep Scotland Yard from finding out that he'd had a hand in Cavendish's murder. Third, find out who had butchered the body and why. Fourth, find a way to tell Mummy that he'd changed his address, _again_. Sherlock finished his cigarette and lit another.

Just then, a few of the forensics squad emerged from the alley carrying boxes, which they placed in their van. One looked around and noticed Sherlock still standing there. He started walking over.

 _Anderson_.

Sherlock grimaced and took another drag of his cigarette before addressing him.

"Can I help you?"

Anderson sneered at him.

"They all think you're so clever, Sherlock."

"That would be because I am."

Anderson ignored him.

"You can't fool me. _I_ _know_."

"Oh, really? You know something? Congratulations; if I'd known I'd have sent a card."

"I know," Anderson went on, "that you know more about this than you're letting on. How else would you know who killed the stiff?"

"'Know, know, know'; has it ever occurred to you, Anderson, that there are a lot of things you _don't_ know?"

"Tetchy, are we?" Anderson smiled. "You might have Lestrade's approval for now, but I can guarantee that won't be the case for long."

"Is that a threat?"

"It's a fact. Do you really think that he'll stand beside you once he realises what you really are?"

"Which is?"

"A freak. A psychopath. A _murderer_."

"Sticks and stones."

Anderson shook his head.

"I know you had something to do with this, and I will do everything I can to find out what." He turned and went back to his colleagues. "You're an evil bastard Sherlock, and one day soon everyone else will finally wake up and see that too."

Sherlock watched him walk away, then crushed the butt of his cigarette under his foot.

-x- ]=[ ]=[ -x-

In Lestrade's opinion, there was nothing on this earth as good as a doughnut, not when you'd been up half the night trying to track down a dangerous criminal. It didn't matter whether The Butcher (in lieu of a name the description had stuck) had murdered Cavendish or not; they had to make sure he wasn't a danger to the general public, and that meant delving as deep into Cavendish's life as possible. Donovan had found several addresses linked to him, and Lestrade had divvied them up between the team. He had allocated himself one about a mile from the crime scene, and was on his way there with a couple of uniforms.

Lestrade shoved the last bite of doughnut into his mouth and brushed sugar from his fingers. This Greenwich flat had been the best hidden, and that combined with the distance from the alley made it the most promising source of evidence.

The police car pulled up outside a converted house, and Lestrade got out, followed by two uniformed policemen. One of them, Moore, picked the lock on the front door and they slipped inside, Lestrade leading the way up to Cavendish's flat. Moore quietly worked his magic on the second door, then on Lestrade's signal, they stormed inside.

"Police!"

There was no reply, but they checked each room in turn to make sure. Lestrade stuck his head into the sitting room, and after a brief jolt of shock shut his eyes and counted to ten.

When he opened them, the scene hadn't changed.

Cursing inwardly, Lestrade called back to the uniforms.

"Alright lads, there's nobody here. I'll give the place a quick once-over, then we can get forensics in. You can wait downstairs, I won't be long."

"Sir," they each replied in assent, before leaving the flat.

Once he was sure they were out of earshot, Lestrade crossed to the cracked leather sofa and glared down at the rumpled form sprawled across it.

"Sherlock, what the _hell_ do you think you're doing?"

When he got no response, Lestrade kneed him none too gently in the arm.

Finally the unmistakeable figure of Sherlock Holmes stirred, blinking blearily.

"Ow."

"Sherlock, seriously; what the hell?"

Sherlock looked at him contemplatively.

"Oooh," he said languidly, stretching out the syllable, "Cavendish. Yes. That."

Lestrade peered at him, noticing the dilated pupils.

"Are you high? God, you are, aren't you? Fucking hell, Sherlock!"

Lestrade received a contemptuous look that he took to mean something along the lines of 'you don't say', only with words that required a dictionary to understand and an even larger dose of sarcasm.

This couldn't be happening. Sherlock, who had _promised_ he was clean, drugged off his face in the secret lair of their drug-dealing murder victim, who also, it seemed, had been involved with a violent criminal gang. Good God, the _paperwork_ …

Lestrade glanced around the room and scratched the back of his neck. He had to get Sherlock out, now, and make it so that he was never there. If anyone found out that Sherlock had been in Cavendish's flat, Lestrade would have no choice but to arrest him for withholding evidence at the very least, and if it went to court, and the jury found out about the whole 'consulting detective' business, that would be the end of Lestrade's career. He'd be lucky not to end up in the dock himself, actually.

"Shit," he said to the room at large. "Shit, shit, _shit_."

He turned to Sherlock, who appeared to be watching him with the same curious interest an uninitiated adult would give to the Teletubbies. Trying his best not to let it get to him, he made a decision.

"Right, you can't stay here. What have you touched?"

"Doorknobs. Sofa. Bathroom," Sherlock told him in a dull monotone.

"Okay…"

Lestrade pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and hurried around the flat, wiping fingerprints from every surface mentioned (bar the sofa, which Sherlock was still lying on) and touching many of them himself to make it look as though it had been done before he'd arrived. When he returned to the sitting room, Sherlock was staring at the ceiling.

"What of this is yours?" Lestrade asked, gesturing around the room.

"Hm? Oh." Sherlock waved a hand at a large black bag and small wooden box on the floor.

Lestrade picked up the box carefully, well aware of what it probably contained, shoved it in the bag, and closed the zip. He slung the bag over his shoulder, then went into the kitchen and jimmied open the door that led to the fire escape. He left the bag on the rusty metal landing, then returned to Sherlock.

"Come on, get your coat on, I'm taking you home."

"No."

"I've got people downstairs so you'll have to use the fire escape, but- wait, what do you mean 'no'?"

"Temporarily homeless; don't worry, I'm used to it."

Lestrade shook his head.

"Well, whatever; you still need to leave."

Sherlock scrunched up his nose.

"Mm, no. Fine here, thank you."

"Sherlock, this is a potential crime scene. There are police downstairs."

"There's one right here; I don't see him arresting me, do you?"

Lestrade lost his patience. He grabbed the collar of Sherlock's shirt and pulled him upright, then shoved his coat and scarf into his arms and marched him through the flat onto the fire escape. It was only then he realised that Sherlock was swaying like a drunkard _and_ holding what looked like a human skull.

 _Fucking hell._

Lestrade forced him to sit down on the steps.

"Stay there, I'll be back in a minute."

He turned to go back into the flat, but suddenly a thought occurred to him and he snatched the skull, ignoring Sherlock's affronted expression. He needed some means of coercion here; he'd have taken the drugs, but wouldn't have felt comfortable with what were probably Class A substances in his pocket.

 _Yeah, because a fucking human skull is so much better_.

He shoved the skull into the deep inside pocket of his coat, then shut and bolted the door behind him. After giving the sofa a quick wipe-down and double checking that there was nothing left that could incriminate Sherlock (and subsequently him), he went back downstairs to where the uniforms were waiting.

"Get forensics in," he told them. "I'll make my own way back to the station; there's a few things I want to check out first."

With that he walked as calmly as he could out of the front door and down the street, then ran through the lane behind the houses and up the relevant fire escape. By some miracle, Sherlock was still there. He looked up as Lestrade approached.

"You took my skull."

"Yes I did," a breathless Lestrade replied, picking up the bag.

"I _need_ my skull."

"And you can have it back if you do as I say and follow me. Hurry up; get your coat on."

Lestrade ended up helping an ungrateful Sherlock into his coat and scarf, then drove him down the fire escape and through the lane as quickly and safely as possible, a hand on his back to keep him moving. Christ, it was like babysitting his five-year-old nephew. Actually, forget that, it was _worse_ than babysitting his five-year-old nephew; at least _he_ didn't make snide comments and 'deductions' about Lestrade's intelligence and private life.

"-but of course, that's to be expected," Sherlock was saying. "After all, it must be- hmm, six weeks since your last girlfriend left? No, seven- your shoelaces are clearly-"

"Sherlock, for the love of God, _shut up_."

"Why? I was under the impression that _you_ wanted _me_ to come with _you_ , not the other way around."

Not dignifying that with a reply, Lestrade tugged Sherlock onwards by the elbow. They emerged from the lane, and when he noticed a Hackney carriage looking for business on the main road, Lestrade made a beeline for it and shoved Sherlock and his bag unceremoniously into the back.

"Where to, gents?"

Lestrade glanced at Sherlock, who was still looking very much like a petulant child, and, knowing he was probably going to regret it, gave the taxi driver his own address.

Sherlock was surprisingly quiet during the journey, which had Lestrade worried for a multitude of reasons- mostly that he was plotting something dastardly that would make Lestrade's life even more difficult than it already was. The cabbie was also silent (his one comment about the weather had elicited a very unfriendly response from you-know-who), which left Lestrade alone with his thoughts.

What was he doing? By law, he should be arresting Sherlock, and cutting all ties with him in self-preservation. He'd been _sleeping_ in _Cavendish's flat_.

Actually, he'd been shooting up in Cavendish's flat. Lestrade was pretty sure he still had that Mycroft chap's phone number pinned to the kitchen noticeboard, given to him a few years back with instructions to call if (the 'and when' had been resignedly implied) Sherlock fell off the wagon. Drugged, apparently homeless _and_ hanging out in a victim's flat? Sherlock was so far off the wagon Lestrade doubted he'd be able to say which direction it had gone in without him. Maybe it was best that Lestrade give the other Holmes a ring…

Saying that, though, the only time Lestrade had mentioned Mycroft Sherlock had given him a glare strong enough to kill. He doubted Sherlock would thank him for bringing his brother into this. Also, it was clear by now that Sherlock had potentially vital information about the case, and Lestrade wouldn't get it if Mycroft came and spirited him away.

At last they pulled up outside his modest semi in East London. Lestrade paid the driver (and apologised for Sherlock's earlier comments) then got out of the cab, holding the door open and staring at Sherlock until he followed. They stood there on the pavement as the car pulled away, Sherlock adjusting his scarf, and Lestrade finally had the chance to get a proper look at him.

His professional opinion was that Sherlock looked like shit. There were bags under his eyes, a sickly pallor to his skin, and it seemed as though a gust of wind could blow him over at any moment.

Lestrade walked up the drive and opened his front door, dumping the bag at the bottom of the stairs and ushering Sherlock into the kitchen. Now that he was moving around on his own, without Lestrade frogmarching him to and fro, he appeared very unsteady, and he hadn't said a word in over twenty minutes.

This wasn't right.

Forget the case, forget his career. Lestrade was by no means cold-hearted, and his concern had now shifted entirely onto Sherlock.

Mind whirling with questions, he pulled out a chair from the kitchen table.

"Sit down."

Sherlock sat.

A bit unsure as to what to do next, Lestrade filled the kettle and turned it on, then went back into the hall and hung up his coat, nearly forgetting to remove the skull. Inspiration struck, and he made a quick trip to the airing cupboard upstairs, then returned to the kitchen, where Sherlock hadn't moved an inch.

"Take your coat off."

After a moment's hesitation, Sherlock did so, slowly, along with his scarf. Lestrade draped them both across the back of another chair with one hand, then flung the thick blanket he'd retrieved from upstairs around Sherlock's shoulders.

Sherlock frowned lightly, blinking.

"W… what? I don't-"

Lestrade placed the skull on the table.

Sherlock pulled it towards himself.

"Thank you," he murmured.

Lestrade sat down and asked the question that had been burning at the front of his mind ever since he first registered Sherlock's uncharacteristic behaviour.

"What did you take?"

It was a few tense moments before Sherlock responded.

"Coat pocket."

Slightly confused, Lestrade gingerly stuck his hand into each pocket of Sherlock's coat in turn, emptying the contents onto the table. A phone, a lighter; cigarettes, penknife, wallet… The usual stuff. Nothing drug-related (bar nicotine, of course, but then Lestrade could hardly talk). Just as he was about to say something to that effect, Sherlock spoke (or rather muttered) again.

"Notebook."

There was a small black book amongst the items. Lestrade opened it and flicked through pages of what appeared to be handwritten deductions and observations, some indecipherable. Finally he came to the last filled-in page. After reading it, he dropped his head into his hands.

No wonder Sherlock looked such a bloody mess.

Clearly this was the come-down from what had probably, for Sherlock, been an interesting night.

And so much for being clean, as well. Lestrade was by no means the best judge, but he had a feeling that if Sherlock had taken a cocktail like that out of the blue, he'd have had two bodies in the morgue.

 _Jesus fucking Christ_.

The kettle whistled.

Lestrade sucked in a breath and got up. He poured two big mugs of tea, and set one in front of Sherlock.

"Drink it. You're probably dehydrated."

Sherlock ignored both him and the tea, which wasn't unexpected. Lestrade returned to his chair and thought about what he should do now.

He'd been expecting a small lapse; maybe one hit of cocaine at the very most. Not _heroin_ , and especially not heroin mixed with several other substances, the possession of any of which carried a hefty fine or a stay at Her Majesty's pleasure. This was ridiculous.

Lestrade didn't have a clue about any of this. He looked at Sherlock, who was trying surreptitiously to pull the blanket tighter around himself. Should he call Mycroft, case be damned? Or should he try to help Sherlock himself, somehow, and keep the man's trust?

"Why'd you do it?"

Lestrade surprised himself with the question, but desperately wanted to know the answer, even if he wouldn't like it. Silence greeted it, however, and Lestrade had drunk half of his tea before Sherlock said anything at all.

"I knew about Cavendish."

At Sherlock's quiet announcement, Lestrade's ears pricked up, but he didn't interrupt.

"I… I knew that someone was tampering with cocaine in the area, deliberately killing those who took it. I traced the contaminated drugs back to Cavendish."

Sherlock grasped the now-cool mug before him with trembling hands.

"I tracked him down. Got him back to my flat. Tied him up. Questioned him. Then he… he got free. My landlord threw me out, let him go.

"He wasn't in on it," Sherlock said abruptly, as though daring Lestrade to arrest the poor devil who'd let him a flat. "He just…" Sherlock coughed. "Anyway. I went after Cavendish. Chased him down that alley..."

He trailed off, and Lestrade couldn't stop himself from asking the obvious question.

"What happened in the alley?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. His voice was faint.

"I know many of the local drug users. I told them Cavendish would be there. When they arrived I left. I assume they killed him, probably with his own deadly cocaine."

"Did you know about the butcher?"

"No." The response was swift and firm, and Lestrade believed him. "No, I didn't. Not that it matters."

"What do you mean?"

Sherlock opened his eyes and smiled bitterly.

"It's still my fault. I as good as killed him. I'm an accessory to murder at the very least."

He sat up and took a sip of his tea, the liquid sloshing about inside the shaking mug. Lestrade shot out a hand instinctively to steady him, but Sherlock shrank away. Once the mug was back on the table, Sherlock stood up, shrugging off the blanket and reaching for his coat.

"What are you doing?" Lestrade asked.

"Putting my coat on." Sherlock was obviously trying to be condescending, but the exhaustion in his voice rather ruined the effect. "Unless you'd rather I didn't wear it to the station."

"The station? Sherlock, what are you on about?"

Sherlock met Lestrade's gaze.

"Well, aren't you going to arrest me?"

"Arrest you?" Lestrade's surprise quickly turned to exasperation and hurt. "Sherlock, sit back down, don't be stupid."

Sherlock did so tentatively.

"Look," Lestrade went on, "I can't arrest you. I should, yeah, but if I arrested you I'd have to arrest myself as well. I asked you to come to the crime scene, I got you out of Cavendish's flat, and I altered evidence to remove signs of your presence from it. We're both guilty. No-one's getting arrested."

"I don't understand."

Lestrade sipped his tea, then sighed.

"Is this why you took the drugs? Because you thought I'd arrest you?"

Sherlock bit his lip.

"Not… not entirely. I've always needed the drugs; Mycroft doesn't understand. I don't want them. I need them. They stop the boredom. But-" He swallowed. "I don't usually take that much."

"Then why did you?"

Sherlock shut his eyes and rubbed his forehead.

"I didn't- I couldn't-" He broke off. "Prison's boring."

Lestrade went still, the cogs in his brain turning. If Sherlock was implying what he thought he was…

"Why did you take so much, Sherlock?"

Sherlock's hand tightened into a fist.

"Basic chemistry. The more you take…" He finished in a whisper. "The less likely you'll wake up."

 _Shit._

 _Fucking, buggering,_ shit.

Suicide. Fucking hell; _seriously_? Suicide. He'd actually tried to kill himself. Lestrade floundered for something to say.

"You… suicide? Really?"

Sherlock gave a minute shake of the head.

"Not exactly. Call it reducing the odds. I didn't mean to die; I just didn't particularly care either way. There's a difference."

There's a difference.

 _Jesus_.

"Sherlock…"

Sherlock looked at him sharply.

"Don't. Whatever it is you're going to say, don't. I don't want your sympathy, I don't want your help, and I most _certainly_ don't want any of this to leave this room. Are we clear?"

"Sherlock, you need _someone_."

"I said, are we clear?"

Lestrade saw the raw desperation on Sherlock's face and had no choice but to give in.

"Okay. We're clear." Sherlock relaxed slightly, but Lestrade hadn't finished. "Just- just let me say one thing. I won't call your brother, I won't kick you off my team, not that you've ever officially been on it; just let me say one thing."

Sherlock nodded reluctantly.

"Right. So." Lestrade licked his lips, thinking, before he began.

"This isn't right, Sherlock. I can kind of see where you're coming from with the drugs, and I honestly don't blame you for acting as you did with Cavendish, the man was a bastard by all accounts, but _this_ … You can't just try to kill yourself."

Sherlock opened his mouth to interrupt, but Lestrade held up a hand and continued.

"I know you weren't properly _intending_ to do it, but you weren't not intending to either, so as far as I'm concerned, it counts. I think… I think it's because you're lonely." He ignored Sherlock's snort of derision. "No, hear me out here. I know you're not exactly a… a 'people person' or anything, but you still need to talk to someone. Otherwise it's just you and your thoughts, and clearly that doesn't end well. So… I suppose what I'm saying is find someone to talk to."

"What do you think the skull's for?"

"Inanimate objects don't count. It's still your mind. Same with pets, not that I could see you with a dog, or a hamster, or whatever." He missed the strange emotion that flashed in Sherlock's eyes. "You need an actual person; a counsellor, or a flatmate, or something like that. You could even call your brother once in a while."

"What about you?"

Lestrade smiled, trying to lighten the mood.

"I'm not enough of an idiot to believe you'd actually choose to talk to me."

Sherlock returned the smile, though it seemed strained and almost forced.

"I'm not quite sure what to say to that."

"Then don't. Just, bear it in mind, alright? You're a self-righteous prick, but God knows we'd never solve half of these crimes without you."

"True. Your team does contain an unusually large amount of idiots."

Lestrade shook his head and stood, taking the mugs to the sink. He poured away the remaining tea and glanced back at Sherlock as he rinsed them out.

He still looked terrible, and as Lestrade watched, Sherlock pulled the blanket back around himself, shivering. Somehow, he was going to make him stay here tonight.

Suicide.

The word was still swimming around Lestrade's head. If he was completely honest with himself, he wasn't really that surprised. Sherlock…

Sherlock was Sherlock. And not caring whether he lived or died when potentially faced with years of endless and mind-numbing boredom was a very Sherlock thing to do. As was taking a multitude of illegal drugs in one go. Lestrade just wished that he'd refrain from both activities, not just for his own sake, but for everyone else's as well.

-x- ]=[ ]=[ -x-

In the end, Sherlock did stay; for several nights, in fact, with Lestrade turning a blind eye to what was probably going on in his spare room involving a wooden box. When he left, it was to stay with an 'old friend' in central London, with a view to renting a flat from them.

They sent Cavendish's case to the unsolved murder squad. After Sherlock 'confessed' that he'd been mistaken about the drug users, and that The Butcher had most likely been the killer, they'd hit a dead end. The Butcher was nowhere to be found, and it wasn't long before a string of serial suicides took Scotland Yard's attention firmly away from the whole affair.

And though Sherlock and Lestrade both agreed never to mention any of it ever again, Lestrade couldn't help but be relieved when a Doctor John Watson turned up in Lauriston Gardens, then later the same night walked away with a genuinely happy Sherlock Holmes.

Maybe there was hope for him yet.


	4. The Time that Opened the Door

A/N: I am ridiculously sorry that this has taken so long; I was definitely overly optimistic when it came to the idea of weekly updates! For some reason I found this chapter really difficult to write, and Real Life hasn't helped matters. I'll try to get the next (and penultimate!) chapter up as soon as I can, but essay deadlines are looming, so it probably won't be as quickly as I'd like. Still, I hope you enjoy this chapter, and that it was worth the wait!

Disclaimer: As much as I might like to own a big red Soviet-era tractor, I don't, and the same goes for everything else.

* * *

The Time that Opened the Door

It was raining.

It had been raining on-and-off (mostly on) for the better part of a week, and the fields were sodden, the dirt tracks that led to them more quagmire than road. The water had washed the last autumn leaves from the trees, forming swampy puddles at the bases of their trunks, and the bare branches loomed menacingly out of the early morning mist like skeletal fingers.

There was an old pigsty on the crux of the hill, just three and a half walls of mossy stone with a leaky slate roof. It was freezing cold, and afforded little shelter from the incessant downpour, but it offered a wide and unobscured view of the run-down farmhouse and surrounding land.

Moriarty's network was extensive and well-hidden, but so far Sherlock had been successful in tracking them down. The lowlier members were the easiest to find, and from there it wasn't too difficult to follow the trail up to the higher echelons. He had it on excellent authority that this apparently abandoned farm in the Ukrainian backcountry was really the local headquarters of a gang that smuggled firearms into Europe, and though essentially unconnected to Moriarty, the gang was closely linked to a man Sherlock had been hunting for three months: Maxim Chugainov.

Chugainov was a hard man to pin down; it had taken weeks for Sherlock to even learn his name, and for a long time the only information he had on him consisted of whispers in alleyways and deliberate omissions. It was clear by now that Chugainov was one of the biggest fish in the network after Moriarty himself. From what Sherlock could gather (pieced together from his own investigations and scraps of information passed on by Mycroft), he took care of business in the eastern limits of Europe, overseeing operations while keeping fingers firmly in several other criminal pies. There was even some photographic evidence to suggest that he had ties to the former KGB, and had spent time working with the Stasi in East Germany at the height of the Cold War. Chugainov was the spider at the centre of a web to rival Moriarty's, and with the Russian out of the picture, Sherlock hoped that the whole structure would unravel, taking much of Moriarty's network, with which it was closely intertwined, along with it.

One strand of Chugainov's web was this gun-running operation, and one of Sherlock's contacts had informed him that a large and politically valuable shipment would soon be passing through the farm on its way from Russia to the Schengen zone of free movement, and then on unimpeded to its final destination in Catalonia. Not only would it be prudent, Mycroft had told him, to stop the shipment's advance, but a shipment of this importance would surely merit an inspection by the head of the gang, so this amounted to the best chance Sherlock had had of collaring Chugainov since that bungle in Bulgaria back in September. If Chugainov did turn up, Sherlock wasn't going to let anyone, or anything, cock it up again.

The rain was becoming both ridiculous and tiresome. An awkward leak had sprung in the roof of the pigsty the previous evening, and though stuffing every potential gap in the vicinity with mud and moss had stopped it for a while, the makeshift sealant was now saturated, and drips kept falling very annoyingly right in the middle of Sherlock's view outside. Luckily, the sky lightened enough to give him a break before he did something regrettable.

Another night over, and still no sign of any activity at all, let alone of Chugainov. After three days of waiting, Sherlock's patience was wearing thin, though he supposed the inclement weather might have delayed things. Sherlock sighed and began to move out of his watchful position in the entry way, wincing slightly, his joints stiff and muscles aching. He stretched as best he could in the cramped space, then turned his back on the dismal dawn and crawled over to where a sleeping bag lay in the far corner of the sty. After kicking off his boots, he climbed in, and turned on his small camping stove, setting some water to boil. He had precious few teabags left, but needed something hot to counter the inescapable cold. He only hoped that his quest would take him away from Eastern Europe before winter set in. Though he'd settle for staying in the region as long as he was in a city; he'd had enough country air by now to last him a lifetime.

Sherlock rubbed his hands together, trying to get a bit more feeling into his numb fingers. He couldn't ever remember being this cold, and there wasn't even snow on the ground yet. This couldn't go on much longer; he had neither the patience nor the resources: just under a litre of water, a few slices of stale bread, a suspiciously soft apple, and a dangerously low amount of paraffin.

He glanced back towards the entrance and sighed decisively. If nobody turned up before dawn the next day, he would have little choice but to pack up his belongings and trudge the five miles back to the nearest village, then try to find another path to Chugainov. As infuriating as it would be if the shipment arrived not long after he'd left, freezing to death, an end quickened by dehydration and malnourishment, would be futile.

The water began to bubble, so Sherlock turned off the heat, then added a teabag to the small pan. This method didn't make a particularly nice beverage, but there didn't seem to be any other way of doing it. He didn't have any milk, either, but instant coffee would never have agreed with the damp conditions, so terrible tea would have to do. He thought suddenly of a big mug of freshly brewed tea with just the right amount of milk, placed carefully in a spot where it wouldn't be knocked by a hand or elbow, but that made him think of John, and of Baker Street, and he was trying not to think of either. He quickly tried to distract himself by pouring the brewed tea into a thermos flask and banishing the thoughts of… _home_ from his mind, but he was tired, and he was cold, and it was never going to work.

John.

He couldn't remember ever missing somebody before; not a person, at any rate. Animals were different- they didn't cloud the air with their idiocy- and objects or places hardly came into the equation. He supposed he must have missed his mother the first time he were separated from her as a baby, but aside from that… never. Not when he went to school, not when Mycroft went to university, not when his parents went on their 'trips'; never. But now here he was, on his own in the middle of bloody nowhere, and he missed John.

Sherlock laughed quietly to himself, but it was utterly devoid of humour.

John.

He took a sip of his tea, grimacing at the foul taste, but enjoying the heat that spread through his chest.

He'd had no choice but to let John believe him to be dead. There was no other way to protect him, and John needed to be protected. But God, he wished there'd been another way.

Standing in the trees on the very day he left for Europe, watching John stand there, listening to his pleas for Sherlock to just _stop it_ , to come back, to come home, Sherlock had very nearly blown the entire thing. He had been so close to just walking over to him, to apologising, to explaining, but in the end, he'd held back. He'd let John walk away, and had walked away himself, back to Mycroft's waiting car, the indomitable Terrance at the wheel. He hadn't spoken to his brother until they'd reached the port.

Because in the end, no matter what Mycroft might think, Sherlock's 'wellbeing' was inconsequential. John was the only thing that mattered, and John was hurting, and Sherlock could have stopped that, but he hadn't. And in all the months since then, all the times he'd nearly turned tail and gone back to Britain, or picked up the phone, or drafted a letter, he'd always stopped himself. Because Moriarty's people might have noticed, and a hurt John was better, even if only marginally, than a dead John.

Because since Mike Stamford had brought a retired army doctor into Bart's, Sherlock had increasingly found that a hurt John meant a hurt Sherlock, so, logically, a dead John would mean a dead Sherlock. It was complicated, and it was one of those thorny issues that Sherlock found it hard to think about, and it raised more questions than he was prepared to answer, but the conclusion remained. For whatever reason, Sherlock couldn't see himself alive if John were not, so for as long as Sherlock wanted to live, John couldn't be allowed to die.

Yet the precipitating symbiosis of hurt was still there, and because Sherlock knew that John was hurting, he himself was hurting, and he had no way of alleviating any of the pain.

Almost no way.

He couldn't help John, he thought as he capped the flask, but he could help himself. It was daylight, and in all his years Sherlock had never met a criminal gang that moved illegal arms around in broad daylight. There would be no movement until sundown at least, that's if there'd be any at all.

So what if he'd promised Mycroft? His brother should have known better than to ask him to make a promise he couldn't possibly have kept, not working alone for months on end knowing what he knew about John. And it wouldn't be jeopardising his work, as for now there was nothing to be done.

He had hours to kill, and sitting in the cold with nothing to do but think about what he'd done and how much he had lost was going to get him precisely nowhere.

With that thought, Sherlock delved a hand into the chill depths of his rucksack, and pulled out his personalised first aid kit. Instead of the usual plasters and antiseptic wipes, he'd filled it with bandages, sterile dressings, and medical alcohol: it was far more likely he'd need to treat a bullet than a splinter wound. And alongside the paracetamol and the codeine were several wrapped hypodermics and a small clear bottle of anaesthetic he'd stolen from a hospital when he couldn't find any morphine.

With a pang of guilt that he didn't understand, he shrugged off his coat and jacket and began to roll up his sleeve.

-x- ]=[ ]=[ -x-

Sherlock woke slowly.

Everything felt fuzzy.

Several moments passed, though for Sherlock they felt more like hours, as his mind worked itself back into gear.

There was a low droning noise, increasing in volume. A car? No… A tractor. An old Soviet model by the sound of it, pulling a trailer, but what..?

Chugainov and the guns.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open, and he winced at the sudden bright light that assaulted his retinas. Carefully he sat up, and clumsily felt around for his boots. He pulled them on and tugged at the laces, struggling to tie them with fingers that somehow didn't feel like his own. Eventually he managed it, and stuck his hand into his bag, searching for his gun.

It wasn't there.

"Try your coat pocket."

Sherlock froze. He looked up at the figure sitting against the opposite wall in surprise, and squinted at him, trying to bring the image into better focus.

" _John_? What… what are you doing here?" His tongue felt heavy. "You were in London."

The figure of John nodded.

"I was. But now I'm here. Only so many ingrown toenails I can treat before I go mad; thought you could use the help."

"John."

John smiled, and Sherlock couldn't help but do the same.

The noise of the tractor engine was getting closer.

"Chugainov," said Sherlock, his speech slightly slurred. "The guns."

John stood up, hunched over with his head just brushing the low roof.

"Right. We'd best get going, don't want to miss the action. Get your coat on."

Sherlock did so, and found that John had been right: the gun was in his pocket. Then he tried to stand up himself, only for his legs to give way like jelly.

John sighed.

"Not exactly the best time to be off your head on analgesics, Sherlock. What was it this time?"

"Ketamine," Sherlock mumbled.

John grimaced and held out a hand to help Sherlock up.

"That explains a lot."

A small part of Sherlock's mind vaguely thought that this remark was somehow very important, but he dismissed it and took up John's offer of assistance, yet strangely overbalanced and ended up sprawled on the floor.

"Maybe you'd best take the hands and knees approach 'til we're outside," John suggested.

Sherlock crawled to the door, too filled with trepidation to give a snarky reply. This could finally be his chance to get Chugainov out of the way. He knelt within the shadows of the pigsty and peered out across the fields, John crouching next to him. The mist had now completely gone, and the rain had stopped at last, in time to give him a perfect view just when he needed it most.

A big red tractor, marked in places with rust, was pulling into the muddy yard at the bottom of the hill, towing a trailer heavily laden with straw bales. As Sherlock watched, two men emerged from the door of the farmhouse, and squelched their way over to the tractor. Another two then hopped out of the cab, one carrying what appeared to be a Kalashnikov on a strap across his chest. They exchanged words, then all went back into the house, except for the one with the rifle, who stood guard beside the trailer.

"So the guns have finally arrived," Sherlock murmured.

"Now what?"

"Now we wait for Chugainov."

Sherlock watched John sit down out of the corner of his eye. His head still felt muzzy, and he was having trouble focusing, especially on John: there was something sort of… _shiny_ about him, and his voice sounded muffled, like he was talking from behind a pane of glass. Sherlock didn't give this too much thought, nor did he dwell on how John had come to be in a pigsty in eastern Ukraine- Chugainov was the priority; everything else could wait.

After about twenty minutes of careful observation, during which his extremities began to feel like they belonged to him once more, Sherlock heard the steadily more audible noise of an engine. He motioned for John to stay in the shadows, and strained his eyes to note every detail of the grey Land Rover Defender that slowly drove into the yard. It did a three point turn, then stopped facing the gate. Another heavily armed man, this one in military fatigues, leapt from the passenger seat, and opened the rear door.

Hardly daring to even blink, Sherlock held his breath as a tall blond man, an interesting sight in his suit and wellingtons, got out. Chugainov.

 _Finally_.

Chugainov glanced briefly at the trailer, then he too went into the farmhouse, along with the man who appeared to be his bodyguard. The driver stayed in the car.

Not taking his eyes off the farmyard below, Sherlock addressed his companion.

"John, what do you think?"

"Two men in the yard, at least five in the house." The ex-soldier's voice was low and business-like. "At least one heavily armed target in each location. We need to take out the two in the yard first; I'd suggest sneaking around the side of the house and attacking them from behind."

"Do you have your gun?"

John gave him a look.

"No, Sherlock, I came after a gang of gunrunners completely unarmed- yes of _course_ I've got my bloody gun."

Sherlock's lips twitched into a smile. He'd missed this.

"Excellent; you take the driver, I'll take the guard." He flicked the safety off his own gun. "Now when I say 'go', run around to the back of the pigsty… Go!"

Sherlock got up and tried to run as best he could to the desired location, then lent heavily on the damp stonework, his head swimming. John was right, this really wasn't the best time to be high. He peered cautiously around the side of the sty, but the men in the yard below didn't seem to have noticed anything.

"Follow me," he said to John, who was suddenly standing right beside him. Staying low, he led the way to the stumpy stone wall at the back of the field that ran right around the property, and scrambled over it with embarrassing inelegance, scowling when John had no trouble at all. Together they crept around the perimeter of the field, Sherlock quite unsteadily, until they had passed both the tractor and the car, and were crouching a few meters diagonally behind the guard.

Sherlock looked at John and raised his hand, gradually counting down with his fingers. After reaching 'one', he leapt over the wall, stumbling when his feet met the squelchy mud on the other side. The guard span around at the noise, but before he could do more than look startled and confused, Sherlock whacked him over the head with the butt of his gun, and he fell crumpled to the ground. Sherlock bent down beside him and securely fastened cable ties around his wrists and ankles, then shoved a rag into his mouth. He left the guard lying in the mud and skirted around the tractor and trailer to the Land Rover, which John was crouching behind.

At Sherlock's accusatory frown, John shook his head and signalled that he'd go around the passenger side, leaving Sherlock to accost the driver from the left. Sherlock risked a peek in the driver's-side mirror, and seeing that the driver was very engrossed in what looked to be the Russian version of Playboy, nodded in assent. He moved as silently as possible to stand in the blind spot, then took a deep breath to try and steady himself. Everything seemed as though it was happening very far away, perhaps in a dream. He should never have taken the bloody ketamine- one moment of weakness, and now the whole operation could have been compromised. He dug his nails hard into his palm, the abrupt pain giving him a fractionally better grip on reality. Time to get on with it.

In one move, he wrenched open the driver's door, plastered a hand across the man's mouth, and jabbed the barrel of the gun into his temple.

The driver's eyes widened comically, and he dropped his magazine, raising his shaking hands. Sherlock heard John cock his own gun next to him, ignoring for the moment the impossibility of his friend having moved from one side of the vehicle to the other without his noticing.

"Stay quiet," Sherlock murmured to the driver, "and I'll let you stay alive. Otherwise, one word, one sound, and…" He pushed the gun further into the driver's skin. "Bang."

The driver whimpered pathetically.

A few minutes later, Sherlock had him gagged, bound, and tied up under a blanket in the rear of his own car. The residual effects of the ketamine didn't seem to be as large an impediment as Sherlock had first feared; he hadn't even needed John's help to drag the driver through the mud. But this had been the easy part; next they had to deal with Chugainov and company.

Sherlock walked over to the trailer, aware of John following a few steps behind. He stopped beside the unconscious body of the guard and stowed his gun back in his pocket, instead picking up the discarded rifle.

"Do you even know how to use that?" John asked.

"In theory, but I don't intend on shooting anyone. Intimidation is the key here." He slid open the dated mobile phone he'd taken from Chugainov's driver and quickly dialled, then pressed it to his ear. "Now for the cavalry."

The phone rang twice, before a gruff voice said, " _Da?_ "

" _On zdes'_ ," Sherlock replied, before hanging up and turning back to John. "Back-up's on its way, but they've a good few miles to go. We'll have to stall for time."

He started walking towards the farmhouse. After a pause, John ran after him.

"Wait, Sherlock; you're not seriously thinking of going in there?"

"Yes, why not?"

"Because… Sherlock, there's a man in there with a rifle!"

"There was a man out here with a rifle, now I have it; keep up."

"That's not the point! The rest of them are probably armed as well; you're no match for them."

Sherlock span around and looked at him oddly.

" _We're_ no match for them, you mean."

John paused and shook his head.

"Yes. Yes, of course. But two against five? Can't we just… I don't know, barricade the doors or something?"

Sherlock grimaced.

"I have to talk to Chugainov. Make sure it's really him. Though if you'd rather stay out here…"

"Don't be an idiot, I'm not going to let you go in there on your own."

"Good," Sherlock said with a smile. "Come on, then."

The farmhouse was old and consisted of only one storey, its windows blocked up with hardboard. Sherlock's best guess was that it contained two rooms, and that the door led into the larger, where most of the men had probably congregated. If Chugainov wasn't in the first room, he'd have to try and make enough commotion to draw him in there; getting into the second chamber wouldn't be easy, even with the rifle.

Sherlock sidled up to the door, pleased to note that the woolliness in his head brought on by the ketamine finally seemed to be clearing, and not a moment too soon. He raised the rifle, and after a silent count of three used it to smash open the door.

He rushed inside, the rifle cocked and raised, John running in behind him with his own gun outstretched. There were two men inside; the bodyguard and the shorter of the two men who had originally been in the building. At Sherlock's entrance, they stood up, the bodyguard aiming his own rifle while his companion groped for a knife that was lying on a battered wooden dining table.

"Good morning," Sherlock said brightly, "or is it good afternoon? Hard to tell when you've been stuck in a pigsty for days on end."

The bodyguard snarled.

" _Kto yebat' ty?_ "

"Ah, Russian," Sherlock replied. "An interesting language, never bothered to learn it myself; probably should have done considering the circumstances. John, any hidden linguistic talents?"

"Um, no; 'fraid not."

"Didn't think so. Never mind, we can still make this work; there's always a common language if you're willing to look hard enough." He wrenched the rifle upwards and fired into the ceiling. "That should do the trick."

The wooden door to the second room slammed open. The tractor driver emerged, holding a pistol out in front of him, and the short man's taller companion was hot on his heels, carrying his own handgun.

"Hmm; Bodyguard's one, Shorty makes two, tractor driver for three, and Taller-than-Shorty for four- we seem to be missing someone." Sherlock smiled at the new arrivals, then raised his voice. "I know you're in there, you may as well come out and say hello."

After a few tense moments where no-one quite seemed sure of what they should do, another figure entered the doorway. He pushed carefully through the men in front of him, until he was standing little more than six feet from Sherlock. He spoke with a heavy Russian accent.

"I was not aware that the English had an interest in a few guns."

Sherlock's heart was racing. At long last, he had Chugainov.

"You'd be surprised," he said in a low voice. "Though in this case, it's not the guns that are the interesting factor."

Chugainov raised his eyebrows.

"Then please, enlighten me, Mr…?"

"I don't think I'm going to give you my name, _Maxim_."

"Oh, so we're on a- what is it? A 'first-name basis' now! Forgive me, I hadn't realised. But I must call you something."

"I don't see why."

"Politeness."

Sherlock curled his lip.

"Very well." He racked his brains to find a suitable alias. 'Sherlock' was out of the question, as was 'Mycroft'; something like 'Greg' or 'William' might still be traced back to him. Under pressure, he glanced at John, and said the first thing that came into his head. "Hamish. You can call me Hamish."

"'Hamish'?" Chugainov seemed mildly amused. "Well, it's a pleasure to meet you, Hamish. Or it would be, if you weren't pointing an AK-47 at my head, and if I knew why you were here."

Sherlock smiled.

"Mm, I'm sure the pleasure is all mine."

Then he realised his mistake. Hamish.

God, of all the stupid names he could have chosen, he went for John's. It wouldn't take much for anyone to type his description into google with the name 'Hamish' alongside it and get results for Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson.

He looked over at John, but he looked amused at the choice, rather than angry or panicked, as would have been rational. His thoughts were broken by Chugainov, who seemed to notice his sudden distress.

"What is the matter?"

"I…" Sherlock thought quickly, then forced his tone to become more light-hearted. "I just realised I haven't introduced you to my colleague. This is… James."

Sherlock gestured to John, who nodded tersely in greeting, and hoped that that name would be enough to muddy the waters. As far as he knew, John had never even met a James. However, Chugainov looked confused.

"Colleague?"

"In a manner of speaking. I warn you, he's an excellent shot."

"…I'm sure." Suddenly the expression of confusion vanished, and Chugainov's eyes gleamed. "So, what is it that brings you- _both-_ here, if not the transport?"

"You."

"Really? I'm flattered, but-"

"I know who you are," Sherlock cut in. "I know what, or rather who, you've been involved with."

Chugainov's expression went blank.

"I do not know what you are talking about."

"So those payments to your Swiss account just emerged entirely out of the blue, did they?"

"How can you possibly-"

"Don't ask me _how_ I know, Maxim. All that matters is that I do."

Chugainov stared at him for a long few seconds, then tilted his head toward his bodyguard.

" _Khvatay yego._ "

Before Sherlock knew what was going on, a muscular arm was crushing him against its owner's torso, the rifle had been wrenched from his hands, and he could feel the unmistakeable press of cold metal against his head. His reflexes were still too slow from the anaesthetic.

"I do no doubt that you know many things that you should not," he heard Chugainov say, "but you were mistaken in coming here."

Sherlock glanced over to John. The doctor's concern and alarm were plain on his face, his gun aimed towards Sherlock's captor, but none of Chugainov's men had made to move on him. Actually, they didn't seem to be paying him any attention at all, even when he yelled for them to let Sherlock go, a fact that nagged uselessly at Sherlock's mind.

"Do not think I have not noticed the _soobshchestvo_ become smaller," Chugainov went on. "I would guess now that this is in some part your doing. It is a useful thing, so I will not be sorry to see you dead, and it continue on."

"Killing me won't save you," Sherlock growled, receiving a kick to the back of his knee for his trouble. His leg collapsed from under him, and the bodyguard let him go. He landed hard on his knees, but barely felt the pain. Looking up, he saw that every gun in the room was pointing at his head, but for John's, which was now aimed at Chugainov.

"Ah. Yes, your… colleague." Chugainov said a few words in Russian to the rest of the men, and all of them laughed. "You know I almost feel sorry to kill you. I am an honourable man, and it is not right to me to kill one who is… what is your expression? 'Not all there'. I am embarrassed for those who fell to you."

Sherlock frowned in confusion, feeling a curious sense of dread, and turned his head to look at John. John smiled at him sadly and lowered his gun. Sherlock felt as though a freezing vice had gripped his heart.

"I… I don't-"

"There is no-one there, 'Hamish'," Chugainov said, cutting Sherlock off. "You are alone, you are unarmed, and-"

There was a sudden clunking noise from outside.

"What is that? _Chto eto_?" Chugainov pointed at the door that led back out into the farmyard. "Avdonin; _proverit' predelami, gotova k s'yemke_."

The tractor driver strode over to the door, his gun raised, and pulled it open a crack, only to shut it again immediately with a cry.

" _Lyudi_! _Ony vooruzheny_!"

Chugainov tensed, and the men all turned their weapons towards the door, leaving Sherlock unguarded. He could have tried to get up and make his escape, or try to wrest a gun from one of the men, but he stayed on the floor. As the door burst open and bullets began to fly through the air, Sherlock watched John slowly fade away and ignored the wetness on his cheeks.

-x- ]=[ ]=[ -x-

After the battle was over, Sherlock sat in the back of an SUV with his belongings piled at his feet. Sherlock's allies had won; Chugainov and three of his men were dead, and the rest had been carted off in handcuffs to who knew where. Mycroft would be pleased to learn that the guns had been seized, and evidence had been found that would likely lead to the capture of the rest of the gang.

Sherlock had thrown the remaining ketamine in a large muddy puddle. He wouldn't be using it again, for a myriad of reasons, mostly because its hallucinogenic properties had proved downright dangerous. Luckily no real harm had come from it, but it could have proved fatal, and not just for him. Yes, John was a very long way away, but if Sherlock had said the wrong thing, London wouldn't have been far enough to keep him safe.

So no more ketamine. But though he could tell himself that this would be the last time, that he'd gone too close to the edge and should stop here and now, Sherlock knew that he was too far gone to turn back. Because the moment the SUV dropped him off in the nearest town, he'd be alone again, as he had to be. The dam had been broken, the itch was back, and as long as Moriarty's network remained, Sherlock had only one way of scratching it.

Sunset had him exchanging worn notes for a small bag of powder at the back of a smoke-filled bar.


	5. The Time he Gave In

A/N: I must confess that this chapter got away from me a bit, hence the (very) late update. I ended up writing most of it on my daily commute to university. On a more positive note, it's nearly the Easter holidays, and there's only one more chapter to go! This chapter didn't quite end up the way I planned it, but I hope you all enjoy it. Also, I'd really love some feedback on it, as writing this has definitely been more of a marathon than a sprint!

Disclaimer: If I owned any part of this, I would not be writing it in a water-stained, dog-eared notebook from my local pound shop.

* * *

The Time he Gave In

Fourteen nights.

That was how long John would be on his honeymoon. John had quite fancied Cornwall, but Mary had finally persuaded him to take her to Italy.

Six days.

That was how long they'd been gone so far, and Sherlock was tired of it.

He told himself it was because he was bored, and restless, and needed John to provide him with a distraction, but part of him knew that this wasn't entirely true.

When he'd first returned from Europe, it had been fine. There was the joy of finally being home, the relief that John was alright, and the need to regain his trust; not to mention the 'unsolvable' cases that had sprung up while he'd been away. Then there'd been Mary and the wedding, and Sherlock had been kept occupied enough not to think about it. But now…

Now it was undeniable. John was gone. He had his wife, and his respectable nine-to-five job, and he wasn't coming back. Well, yes, he was coming back to London, but he wasn't coming back to Baker Street, back to Sherlock, and that was what mattered. He was gone, and he wasn't coming back, and Sherlock was alone again.

He'd never really minded being alone before (before John), but now he'd had a taste of… of companionship, he supposed, and he found he didn't want to lose it. And John might be full of nice words and well-intentioned sentiments, telling Sherlock that nothing would really change, but he was _married_ now. Of course things would change once he got used to _normalcy_. It was only a matter of time before Sherlock would be attending every crime scene by himself once more, his one true friendship reduced to invitations for monthly pints or coffees that Sherlock would inevitably decline. Then John would get tired of him, just like everyone else, and that would be that.

Sherlock didn't blame Mary. He actually quite liked Mary, and anyone with half a brain could see that she was perfect for John, but all of that just made the situation worse. If Mary had been a particularly horrid human being, Sherlock could have hated her, and felt no guilt in subsequently turning John away from her, as he had with that terrible Meredith woman (or had it been Bethany?), and then John would still be there. Yes, it was worryingly possessive of him, but John was all he had.

Not that he had him anymore. He was Mary's now, and Sherlock couldn't begrudge either of them the happiness they'd found in each other, but that didn't change the fact that he had already lost his flatmate, and would soon lose his best friend. Because why would John want to spend his time running around after him when he had a child?

Sherlock opened his eyes and stared across the sitting room at John's armchair. If he tried, he could imagine that John had just gone out to get the milk; that he'd come back within the hour and make the tea, probably try to get Sherlock to eat something, then settle down to scan the paper for cases. But his mind noticed the lack of _John's things_ that he'd been trying not to see, and he turned away.

Eastern Europe had been nothing compared to this. _This_ was what loneliness felt like.

It was literally nightmarish; wanting more than anything to go home, yet waking up and finding that he was already there, only it wasn't like home anymore. Sherlock's home had been in Baker Street with John. Without John, a crucial element of the formula was missing, and Sherlock no longer had a home.

The flat was too quiet. It was too empty.

And now it always would be.

Sherlock glanced back at the chair with a sudden stab of anger. Why should one person have so much power over his emotions? He prided himself on being above useless feelings. What right did one man have to change that? What right did _anyone_ have, other than Sherlock himself?

He stood up from his own armchair and marched over to John's. Boiling with rage and frustration, he grasped it by the sides and dragged it out of the room and onto the landing. Though he was itching to throw the bloody thing down the stairs, his remaining rationality vetoed the idea: he didn't want to cause a scene, he just wanted to be rid of it, and be rid of everything that it was making him _feel_ without his permission. So instead of delighting in the terrible crash it would surely have made in its descent, Sherlock hauled it upstairs with as much aggression as was physically possible, then kicked open John's bedroom door and thrust it inside.

Task completed, Sherlock stood in the doorway, breathing heavily, both from the exertion and his brief and uncharacteristic bout of fury. As he calmed down, he began to see things more clearly.

John's bedroom.

He hadn't been up there since he'd got back. He'd not had any reason to; it was just an empty room.

And of course, standing there now, that's exactly what it was. Just an empty room.

There was a bed in it, and a wardrobe (and now an armchair), so it wasn't empty in the strict dictionary sense, but at the same time there was no other possible word for it. The mattress was stripped bare, the wardrobe door open to reveal a couple of cheap coat hangers. There were no personal possessions; no medical texts, or odd socks, or framed photos of Harry on the windowsill. No illegal handgun stowed away in the bedside cabinet amongst prescription painkillers, and paperbacks, and half-empty biros.

The room was empty of life.

It was empty of John.

Sherlock drew in a shaky breath, then turned tail and fled back down the stairs. He paused only to grab his coat and phone from the sitting room before leaving the building altogether, barely remembering to shut the front door behind him.

-x- ]=[ ]=[ -x-

It was the usual affair.

One victim; male, early twenties, stab wound. No clear signs yet of who the culprit was, but Lestrade was confident that they wouldn't be too hard to find. There'd been the twinge in his stomach when he first laid eyes on the lad, and the pang of sympathy for his family, but once that was over it was business as usual. Just another day at the office.

"Travis," he called to the forensics lead, "any ideas on the murder weapon?"

Travis stood up from where he'd been crouching beside the body on the pavement.

"Yes, sir. A kitchen knife, by the looks of it, but I'll need the post-mortem to know for sure. At any rate, it had a wide blade, fairly long; about eight inches."

"The blade went all the way in?"

"Certainly looks like it. It's a deep incision, and there's bruising to suggest the hilt hit him quite hard when the blade ran out. Whoever did this did it with gusto, I'll give them that."

"A crime of passion, do you think?"

Travis smiled.

"You're the detective, you tell me. But yes, that was my first thought. You don't usually get premeditated murders in residential streets."

"Thanks, Travis."

"Sir!"

Lestrade looked round to see Donovan trotting over.

"What is it?"

"Sir, it's the freak," Donovan said with a grimace.

Sure enough, Lestrade could see Sherlock striding towards them over Donovan's shoulder. He sighed.

"Okay, I'll deal with this. Get on to the family liaison team, ask them to find out if Radley was in in a relationship."

Donovan agreed, still shooting strange looks towards Sherlock as Lestrade went to meet him.

It was the first time Lestrade had clapped eyes on him since the wedding, and he didn't need a medical degree to know that Sherlock did not look well. He was nearly as pale as the stiff, for pity's sake. Lestrade had known that Sherlock would probably need time to adjust to not being John's number one priority, but had he guessed that Sherlock would end up looking like a well-groomed zombie, he'd… Well, he'd have done _something_.

"Sherlock, what the hell are you doing here?"

Sherlock licked his lips before responding.

"There's been a murder."

Lestrade blinked at him.

"…Yes."

"You didn't _call_ me." Sherlock fixed the inspector with an accusatory stare. "I had to find out by myself."

"Of course I didn't call you; it looks like a run-of-the-mill impassioned stabbing. We don't need you here."

Lestrade saw something terrible flash in Sherlock's eyes at his second statement, and immediately regretted making it.

"Sorry, I… long day. Look, you're here now, you may as well come and have a gander."

"A 'gander'?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow. " _Really_?"

"Shut up, Sherlock, or I'll change my mind."

The absence of a witty comment in response to that did nothing to allay Lestrade's concerns as he led the way to the body. Sherlock was instantly on the ground with his magnifying glass.

"His name's Evan Radley, twenty-three," Lestrade told him. "Lives in the basement flat of a house a few doors up from here. There's no CCTV; I've got the uniforms making house-to-house calls, but so far we've no eyewitnesses."

"Someone must have seen or heard something." Sherlock peered at Radley's fingernails.

"I agree, but the most we've got at the moment is the woman who found the body." He opened his notebook. "Kathleen Bowman. She was understandably a bit shaken; I've asked her to come in to the station tomorrow morning to give her statement, but I doubt she can tell us anything we don't already know."

"True. John, can you-"

Sherlock broke off, frozen rigid.

Lestrade was silent for a moment.

"There's…" he began, before swallowing and lowering his voice. "There's Travis, on forensics. Nice chap, just transferred up from Somerset. He'll be happy to go through the details with you."

Sherlock slowly relaxed out of his taut stance, but not all of the tension abated. He stood up and shoved his hands in his pockets.

"As long as it's not Anderson." Lestrade was surprised by the tired resignation on his face. "Where is this Travis?"

Lestrade pointed to a blue-clad man tapping away at a laptop in the back of the forensics van, and watched Sherlock cross the scene with noticeably less arrogance than normal.

There really was no reason for Sherlock to be here. The case looked to be cut-and-dry; an angry lover or friend, possibly a loan shark. There was nothing in it that could possibly pique Sherlock's interest, and they'd hopefully have it solved on their own by the end of the week.

Lestrade bit his lip. He could think of one possible explanation: that Sherlock was lonely, and wanted a bit of company. He looked a Sherlock a bit longer, noting the tightness in his shoulders. It could be so; John had been gone for a while. Then Lestrade really thought about it, and dismissed the notion. This was _Sherlock_ ; Sherlock really didn't seem the type to get lonely, and he'd been away from John for far longer than this with no trouble whatsoever. No, this was probably just boredom.

Sherlock stopped talking to Travis and strode back to Lestrade.

"Keep him, he's not a total idiot."

Lestrade gave him a long look.

"Who are you, and what have you done with Sherlock Holmes?"

"Very funny," Sherlock said, scowling.

"No, seriously; that's got to be the first time I've ever heard you say something about a SOCO that wasn't tantamount to verbal abuse. If you've actually found someone you're willing to work with, I'll have to keep an eye out for flying pigs."

"It's not as though I've got much choice, is it?"

Sherlock's words were like acid, and Lestrade immediately sobered.

"Fair enough. How…" He swallowed. "How are you keeping? You know, since-"

"I need to see the victim's wallet."

"Right." Lestrade cleared his throat. "Right, yes. Donovan!"

Donovan glanced up from the paperwork she'd been bent over.

"Sir?"

"I need the wallet, Sherlock wants a look."

Her lips a thin line, she picked up an evidence bag from atop the bonnet of a patrol car and brought it over, holding a pair of latex gloves outstretched. Sherlock snatched them and snapped them on with a neutral expression. Donovan looked him over, then met Lestrade's eyes with a questioning gaze. Lestrade shook his head and took the evidence bag, handing it to Sherlock. Donovan headed back to her papers, but Lestrade caught her peering back over her shoulder, a crease between her eyes.

"Of course. Obvious."

Lestrade turned back to Sherlock. The evidence bag was lying discarded on the ground, and the consulting detective held the wallet in one hand, the other clutching what looked like a tattered business card.

"What is it?"

Sherlock passed it over, and Lestrade held it up to eye level. It was a scrap of textured pink paper, a phone number written on it with black felt-tip. He turned it over in his fingers, but couldn't see anything of significance.

"Okay," he remarked, "so he had a woman's number in his wallet."

"More specifically," said Sherlock, "he had a _prostitute's_ number in his wallet."

Lestrade sighed. It really had been a long day, and he was running out of patience.

"Don't tell me. The paper's scented with some cheap perfume that only a hooker would wear. Or is it the handwriting? No, wait! You could tell by the way he'd stashed it between his credit card and a Durex."

"Sarcasm doesn't become you," Sherlock muttered absently. "And don't be ridiculous; I recognised the number…"

He trailed off, and crouched back down next to the body.

Lestrade's eyes widened.

"H-hold on," he spluttered. "You recognise the number?"

"Yes."

"You. _You_ recognise…" He shook his head in astonishment. "A prostitute? _Really_?"

" _Yes_. Is it actually so- oh." Sherlock paused, then frowned. "Mind out of the gutter, please, Inspector. Roxy is an upstanding member of the local community; she's just been having some financial trouble since her husband was jailed for being a member of the Sicilian Mafia. She was a witness in the Franklin case last year."

"Oh, the one with the Toby jugs and the JCB? Yeah, I remember." Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "How come you've memorised her number? I thought you deleted any useless data."

"It is useful data." Sherlock caught sight of Lestrade's expression and stood up. "Stop it. You know full well I like to have contacts in many different areas."

It was the disconcerting tightness in the skin around Sherlock's eyes that made Lestrade abandon his teasing.

"Yeah, alright. So what does our cadaver having this Roxy's number mean for us?"

Sherlock pointed at the body.

"There are flecks of red nail varnish on the sleeve of his coat, and a lipstick smudge on his cheek," he said, in almost a monotone. "There's a picture of a young woman in his wallet, most likely his girlfriend, but she doesn't look the type to wear any makeup at all. Clearly he was with someone else, but not an affair. Look at his clothes; he obviously wasn't going on a date. The evidence all adds up to the presence of a prostitute, Roxy, who he was in the process of taking back to his flat. The smudged lipstick suggests that she tried to kiss him but he turned away; he saw something, or someone, which turned their rendezvous into an awkward situation. That someone was probably the killer. I'd hazard a guess at it being the girlfriend; she sees her partner with another woman and murders him in a jealous rage. Call Roxy, she'll be able to tell you for certain."

"The girlfriend did it? Just like that? Seems a bit implausible, I have to say."

"I'd imagine there was some sort of confrontation before the act, but it's not an unlikely situation. People tend to do absurd things when strong emotions are involved."

Sherlock's eyes darkened at his second statement, and Lestrade wondered just what had happened in the week since the wedding.

"Alright, I'll call Roxy."

Sherlock nodded, but still seemed distracted. Lestrade cast off his remaining reservations, and mentally winced in advance of the reaction he was sure to provoke.

"Sherlock, mate," he began, "answer me honestly. Are you alright?"

Sherlock drew himself up to his full height and glared down at Lestrade.

"I'm fine."

"Are you sure? Because-"

"I said I'm fine," Sherlock snapped.

"Okay, I only asked. Just a bit of friendly concern."

"I don't need your concern."

Lestrade nodded once, sharply, and rocked back on his heels.

"Right. Good."

Sherlock seemed to wait a few moments, as if to be sure Lestrade had finished any attempt at interrogation, then visibly deflated, staring down at the body that was still only a few shades paler than himself.

Lestrade absent-mindedly checked his watch, and swore.

"Shit. Look, sorry; I'm going to have to go."

Sherlock looked up at him, confusion etched on his features.

"Go? Go where? There's been a murder."

"Yes, and while some of us are married to our work," Lestrade said, missing the effect the mention of matrimony had on his companion in his hurry, "some of us have dates that we're already running late for."

"If you're already late, why bother?"

Lestrade looked at him with disbelief, but chose to otherwise ignore the remark.

"Anyway, you can't stay here without me, so thank you very much for your help, unsolicited though it may have been, but…"

With that, Lestrade grasped Sherlock's shoulder and steered him towards the police cordon, ushering him underneath it while yelling an excuse to Donavan. As he jogged over to his car, he was struck with a sudden pang of guilt. He wrestled with himself for a moment, weighing up his chances of getting another date with Maureen if he cancelled this one. In the end, he just called back over his shoulder as he slid into the driver's seat:

"Don't do anything stupid!"

As he put the car into gear and drove off, Lestrade glanced into his rear-view mirror. The sight of a dejected, windswept, _lonely_ Sherlock standing with his shoulders slumped at the edge of the kerb, watching Lestrade drive away, would haunt him for weeks to come.

-x- ]=[ ]=[ -x-

His feet were taking him somewhere, but he wasn't entirely sure where.

For a man who prided himself on his mental faculties, who made sure his mind was always firmly in control, whose movements were always chess-like and deliberate, this was a new and unsettling experience.

Sherlock didn't know where he was going. He didn't know what he was doing, nor even what he _should_ be doing. All he really knew was that he was walking, and for now, it seemed, he was going to keep walking, until his rarely utilised subconscious decided that he'd reached his destination.

The crime scene had been… good. Barely a three for the crime itself, of course, but the social interaction had kept him busy, kept his mind working. That was good, he knew, but he no longer knew why, or even if he'd ever known at all.

Lestrade had left, and the crime had been dull, so Sherlock had left too, because that was the logical action to take. But after that-

After that, it was as though leaving the scene had tripped a switch and turned off his mind, and Sherlock couldn't turn it on again. He didn't know how.

His feet kept walking, and his eyes were working, seeing people milling about, but not _seeing_ them; and he could hear, but the noise was like that of a turned-down radio that everyone's forgotten about, having been on so long that it is naturally ignored.

Walking on and on, not seeing, not hearing, not thinking.

The pavement changed to steps.

His feet stopped.

' _The Diogenes Club_ ', the sign read.

 _Mycroft_.

There should have been something surprising about that, something wrong, but Sherlock couldn't think what, so his feet resumed their march. Up the steps, through the door, across the foyer, up the stairs, down the hall, through another door…

He paused on the threshold.

A man sat in an armchair, reading a newspaper. He looked up.

"Sherlock?"

The man (- _Mycroft, his brother, right-handed, cheated on his diet three hours ago with a cream tea-_ ) said something else, but Sherlock didn't hear it. The switch had finally been flipped, and his brain was rebooting with phenomenal speed:

-Perhaps it hadn't been the girlfriend; this was the second crime to involve Roxy and coincidences didn't exist-

-This was Mycroft, he'd come to Mycroft; what did that say about him-

-Had to remember to take the tongues out of the bleach and buy some more drain cleaner-

-Why hadn't he been able to think? That was awful, that was _terrible_ -

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock froze, his mind locking on the source of the interruption. He let go of the doorframe that his left hand had apparently been trying to crush.

"Mycroft," he said, low and tired, reluctant and wary.

Mycroft had stood up.

"Why are you here?"

Sherlock frowned, and not only at the patronising patience in his brother's tone. He answered truthfully before he could stop himself.

"I don't know."

Mycroft walked towards him, stopping only a few feet away.

"Sherlock, are you alright?"

"I'm fine."

The automatic response.

He wasn't fine, he was the very opposite of fine, and he wanted to scream as much; make it so that his big brother would wave a magic wand and everything would be alright. But he wasn't a child anymore, and this was _Mycroft_. He couldn't show weakness, that was the rule, not in front of Mycroft- but what was the sense in the rule? Where did it come from; why did he make it; what was the _point_?

 _Don't show weakness._

 _You're fine._

 _You don't need him._

He was fine. He didn't need Mycroft. He didn't need Lestrade. He didn't need _John_.

Mycroft was looking at him with annoyingly tender and superior scepticism, but Sherlock barely noticed, because quite suddenly he couldn't breathe.

He needed John.

God help him, he _needed_ John.

He'd never been clean, all this time; it was just that his addiction had shifted. John had been a drug stronger even than heroin. It was clearly no coincidence that the itch had come every time they'd been apart: it had been an attempt to compensate for the withdrawal.

He was addicted to John Watson, in some intangible and unexplainable way, and now John was gone. In Europe, he quickly surmised, it hadn't been this bad because everything he'd done had been to protect John, and so to further his chances of getting another fix. But John was no longer _his_ , and Sherlock knew that it was over, even more strongly than he'd foreseen an enforced end to his monogamous relationship with Class A substances from his hospital bed after That Christmas. This time, there could be no relapse.

Sherlock forced himself to take a great gulp of air, but still felt its oxygen content to be lacking. A sudden terrible calm fell over him.

So far, this withdrawal had felt worse than for the heroin, and in that instance going entirely cold turkey had been deemed medically unsafe. It therefore stood to reason that this was not a detox he could survive without similar measures to those which had been employed in the rehabilitation clinic.

Perhaps cocaine to start, since procuring methadone was so tedious a pursuit, moving up the scale if that proved ineffective.

Pacified somewhat by his resolute prognosis, Sherlock found he could breathe more easily. He registered that Mycroft had been talking, and tuned back in.

"-down, I'll pour you some tea. Whatever this is, I'm certain you and I can find a way through it."

 _No_ , Sherlock thought. _There's nothing you can do, not this time. How does powerlessness feel, brother?_

"I see your diet's gone out of the window," he said aloud. "One would think you're not even trying."

"Sherlock-"

"I'd blame the desk job and the personal chauffer, but we can't ignore your secretary's overindulgence of your sugar addiction." Insulting Mycroft was wonderfully easy. "There are cake crumbs on your lapel, and if I'm not mistaken, the white mark on the cuff of your jacket tells of a misadventure involving clotted cream. You're becoming sloppy, brother dear."

Mycroft blinked slowly and sighed.

"You forget, Sherlock, that I know you better than I daresay you know yourself. Let me help you before you do something that we'll both regret."

"I don't need your help."

"Of course you do. I know the signs, and I know very well that you're not one to help yourself."

Sherlock glared at him.

"You're wrong. I can help myself and I fully intend to."

"Substance abuse doesn't count, Sherlock," Mycroft told him sharply. "Now for Heaven's sake, sit down and accept my assistance for once in your life."

"Can you bring John back?" Sherlock's voice was tight. "Can you turn back time and change things, so that he never met Mary? Though I suppose he was bound to find some woman eventually, so maybe it would have been better if he'd never met _me_. Can you do that, Mycroft? Can you make it so that none of it ever happened?" By now he was shouting, unable to stop, ignoring his blurring vision. " _No_. You can't. You can't help why don't _you_ sit down and accept that, for once in your life, there is _nothing you can do_."

Without pausing to notice the surprised look of regretful sorrow on Mycroft's face, Sherlock turned on his heel and ran back through the club, ignoring the scandalised stares of the other members as he passed them. He turned up his collar against a chill that he wasn't entirely convinced existed, and set out into the sunset.

-x- ]=[ ]=[ -x-

It took far too long to find him; longer than it should have done, and certainly longer than he'd have liked.

In fairness, Mycroft supposed it had been something of a shock. There he'd been, stealing a few precious hours of relaxation, when in had waltzed his brother, looking like he might keel over at any second. He'd known that look of Sherlock's, known what it had meant. Drugs were involved, and Mycroft had had to act, and fast. But yet again, he'd underestimated his brother's obstinacy, and received the usual insults for his troubles. Mycroft would have gone straight after him when he fled, would never have let him leave in the first place, but Sherlock had succeeded in rendering him absolutely stunned. He hadn't seen Sherlock show that much emotion since they'd been in school. And the things he'd said, the anguish in every syllable…

Something was terribly wrong with his brother, but the very wrongness that had necessitated quick action had also left Mycroft completely wrong-footed, and so prevented it.

It had only been a delay of a few seconds, but by the time Mycroft had come to his senses and hurried to the entrance of the building, Sherlock had vanished. He'd immediately placed some calls and started a search, but it was hours before there was any news; hours in which Mycroft replayed their encounter in his mind and was gripped with terror at thoughts of what Sherlock might have been driven to do.

When he was told that they'd found him, he'd leapt straight into the waiting car. For once Terrance had said nothing on the journey to the park, not even to announce their arrival, apparently sensing (correctly) that Mycroft was best left alone.

The car stopped, and Mycroft got out. One of his people was waiting just inside the gates. He waved off the offer of guidance, and began walking in the indicated direction, swinging his umbrella anxiously at his side. It was a clear night, with the crescent moon providing adequate enough lighting to illuminate his path through the deserted park. He turned a corner, and came upon a prone form lying on a bench, huddled beneath a dark wool coat.

Mycroft sighed softly, both in relief and despair, and slowly walked over to sit on the bench at Sherlock's feet. He tapped the end of his umbrella on the ground.

"I thought we'd moved past this, Sherlock."

Sherlock said nothing, but Mycroft knew from the way his brother's leg twitched that he was listening.

"What was it?" he asked.

For a long time there was silence, but just as Mycroft was about to go on, Sherlock muttered a response.

"John."

"I see."

Sherlock snorted, and Mycroft grimaced.

"Where's the list?"

An elbow nudged at the coat, and Mycroft got the message. He reached into the pocket and felt around, ignoring the phone and keys in favour of a folded-up sheet of paper. He pulled it out and deftly opened it, smoothing out the creases as he read the familiar black scrawl.

"I suppose it could have been worse," he remarked. "Though the dosage you've written would be an unusual amount to purchase, so I assume you've some left over?"

Silence.

"Give it to me, Sherlock."

Sherlock shifted under his coat.

"No."

Mycroft shut his eyes and ran a hand across his brow.

"I'd prefer not to fight you on this, but if you force my hand-"

" _No_." Sherlock poked his head out and looked at Mycroft with bloodshot eyes, their pupils wide and shining. "I _need_ it," he whined.

"No, Sherlock, you don't." Mycroft kept his voice calm, but found it a struggle to do so. "We've been through this, and you've been doing so well. Don't throw it all away now. Give me the cocaine."

Sherlock drew his knees up to his chest and drew his coat more tightly around himself, shivering.

"Would… would you have taken my methadone? In the clinic?"

Mycroft frowned.

"What on Earth does that have to do with anything?"

"Would you," Sherlock repeated.

"No. No, of course I wouldn't have. You needed it."

"Exactly."

Mycroft considered this, rubbing his thumb across the handle of his umbrella.

"Please don't tell me you've been using again."

Sherlock licked his lips.

"Semantics."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I haven't been… I haven't been _using_ , per se. Not since I came back, at least."

Mycroft was relieved, but again chastised himself for not having realised at the time quite how much Sherlock had been struggling in Europe.

"And tonight?"

"Easing withdrawal," Sherlock said, as if it were obvious.

"From what?"

Mycroft's tone was sharper than he'd intended, and Sherlock shifted awkwardly before answering.

"John."

"John?" Mycroft asked carefully.

"Mm." Sherlock was staring off into space, looking utterly despondent. "It would appear I found a new addiction."

It took Mycroft a moment to catch on to what his brother was inferring.

"Do you mean to say," he said slowly, "that you believe yourself to have developed an… _addiction_ to John Watson?"

Sherlock closed his eyes.

"So it would seem."

Mycroft was incredulous.

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Believe me, Mycroft, nobody wishes that I were wrong more than I do."

"You cannot possibly be addicted to your- your _flatmate_."

Sherlock threw off the coat and propped himself up on his elbow. His forehead glistened with cold sweat.

"Really? Would you like me to give you an empirical account?" Sherlock's words were bitter. "Irritability, restlessness, poor concentration- withdrawal symptoms. Need I go on?"

There it was.

For a genius, his brother could be excellent at missing the obvious.

Mycroft shook his head, wincing internally at his own conclusions. It would explain a lot, certainly, and it was solvable, but it also complicated matters. He gently rested a hand on his brother's ankle, where it lay next to his thigh.

"Sherlock…" He paused and took a steadying breath. "Those are also the symptoms of depression."

Sherlock tensed.

"Now who's being ridiculous?"

"It's not ridiculous," Mycroft sighed. "You were probably correct that all of this stems from your… _attachment_ to John, though of course I'm no expert. You do care about him far more than has ever been sensible. Now he's left you, to all intents and purposes, and you never did deal well with loss. I'm sure it's only natural-"

"Fuck off."

Sherlock wrenched his leg away from Mycroft and stood up, the sudden rage he was plainly displaying apparently combating the unsteadiness not entirely brought on by the cocaine.

"It's nothing to be ashamed of-"

"Shut up, Mycroft. This is none of your concern."

" _You_ are my concern," Mycroft said, frustration colouring his tone.

Sherlock curled his lip.

"I thought caring wasn't an 'advantage'? But then, I suppose you've always been something of a hypocrite. Or perhaps it's not me you care about."

"I'm not your enemy, Sherlock. I can help you."

"You're a bastard." Sherlock pulled on his coat and started to walk away, heading further down the path and deeper into the park.

Mycroft stood and hurried after him.

" _Please_ , Sherlock. Listen to me. Let me help."

"I said, fuck off." He didn't turn around.

Mycroft watched him go.

What could he do? Sherlock's stubbornness was rivalled only by his own. If Sherlock wouldn't accept his help, there was no use forcing the issue; the more Mycroft pushed, the more Sherlock would resist. That was how it had worked with them for years. All he could hope was that Sherlock would realise he'd been talking sense, give up his absurd notion of being addicted to Doctor Watson, and stay away from the drugs. He wasn't particularly optimistic about the last part.

Mycroft walked back to the road and slumped in the backseat of his car, instructing Terrance to take him home. He pulled out his phone and made a quick call to his assistant, requesting that further surveillance be placed on his brother. At least then if Sherlock did anything monumentally foolish, help would be near at hand.

He hung up, but didn't put the phone away, smoothing his fingers over it as he watched central London drift by in a blur of yellows and reds, thinking. Finally he returned his attention to his phone, and carefully tapped out a text that he would later believe to have been against his better judgement, when soon after Sherlock would vanish, not be seen for several months.

 _I apologise for upsetting you. Not my intention. You know where to find me._

Mycroft paused, then added another line before pressing send. It wouldn't fix things, but he hoped it would be a start. Sherlock needed him, had always needed him, and Mycroft had let himself get too caught up in his own success to see it. Now they would both pay for his blindness. Mycroft prayed to any deity that might exist that the price wouldn't prove too high.

 _I do care, Sherlock. MH._


	6. The Time that Wasn't

A/N: Good grief, it's finally finished! I wanted to have this up months ago, but guess what: real life happened, as did a very annoying case of writers' block. Still, it's done, and before Christmas at that! This is the first multi-chapter fic I've ever completed, and hopefully it won't be the last. Anyway, a big thank you to those fifty-two followers who have stuck with it, and everyone else who's taken the time to read it, especially you lovely reviewers! Now, without further ado, here's the final chapter (for now- who can say what inspiration the next series will bring?) of 'Of a Broken Symphony', and I hope it was well worth the wait!

Disclaimer: You really ought have realised by now that I own absolutely nothing. Though I did have some cheese on toast for my lunch (on non-mouldy bread, I hasten to add).

* * *

The Time That Wasn't

He had no idea what was coming for him. That much was obvious from the way he continued to eat his… lunch, judging from the shadows on the ground and Sherlock's own knowledge of Kenyan day length. Though it was of course debateable as to whether human concepts of mealtimes could be applied to a grazing animal such as a zebra. Either way, it was clear what was going to happen: the lioness would pounce, but the zebra would escape. They were only half way into the programme, after all.

The lioness pounced, and the zebra ran away.

Sherlock threw the remote at the television. It made a very satisfying thunk as it collided with a precarious tower of John's paperbacks, sending them cascading to the floor.

"Oh, Sherlock, really!"

 _Ah. Mrs Hudson_.

A tray was balanced carefully on the coffee table, and Sherlock eyed the chocolate digestives with suspicion.

"I thought you weren't my housekeeper?"

Mrs Hudson grimaced.

"Yes, well; just this once." She sighed and surveyed the newly-instated carpet of trashy novels. "Honestly, the mess you boys make…"

Sherlock picked up a biscuit and turned it in his fingers, watching as she slowly bent down to pick up the remote.

"Hip giving you trouble?"

Mrs Hudson turned off the television, cutting off the presenter's tantalising remarks about starving lion cubs, and touched a hand to the offending joint.

"Nothing unusual there, Sherlock. Do you know, I went to the doctor last week-"

"-Yes, Mycroft invaded and there was no one to rescue me-"

"-And he's put me on the waiting list for a replacement."

"Hm." Sherlock took a bite from his digestive.

"Won't be for months yet, but I think I'll ask my sister to come and stay, help me out a bit."

Sherlock swallowed.

"I'm sure John would look in on you, he… seems to enjoy things like that."

"I can hardly expect him to, though, can I?" She disappeared into the kitchen. "And anyway, he'll be back with Mary soon, mark my words. Those two were meant for each other."

"Hm."

"Now, there's still some of that casserole in the fridge, why don't you heat that up for your tea? Might be enough for John, too, if you make up some Smash to go with it; I think I've got some downstairs-"

"Mrs Hudson."

"-I'll go and get it; and some frozen peas, that'll make a nice dinner for you both-"

"Mrs Hudson!"

She turned to him with a startled hop.

"Thank you for the tea," Sherlock ground out pointedly.

"Right. Right, yes, I'll just be going. Just your landlady, after all." She bustled out of the flat, but stopped on the landing and poked her head around the door. "If you need anything, though…"

"Yes, _thank you_ , Mrs Hudson."

Mrs Hudson threw up her hands and shook her head as she disappeared down the stairs and out of sight. Sherlock closed his eyes and listened for the bang of her flat door closing behind her. When it did, he let out a long, slow breath.

This was torture. Utter torture.

Lestrade was refusing to give him any cases, saying he needed 'time to rest and recuperate', or some such nonsense. On top of that, Mycroft and John seemed to have formed an unholy alliance hell-bent on keeping him caged in the flat, with Mrs Hudson on strict instructions not to let a single private client further than the bottom stair. But what really got on his goat was how John had started taking both their laptops, and Sherlock's mobile, to work with him, in an effort to prevent Sherlock from even checking his emails.

Yes, he'd been shot; yes, he'd nearly died. But really, he was perfectly capable of solving a few elementary riddles from the comfort of his sofa. The entire situation was absurd.

Sherlock shoved the rest of the digestive into his mouth, sulkily sucking the chocolate from the biscuit. No cases of any description (not even Magnusson's, now they'd made their deal), and no hope of getting any more, until either John deemed him fit or went back to Mary- and though he'd accepted that the latter had to happen at some stage, he'd still rather it was the former. So, for as long as Sherlock's wounds still looked more like wounds than scars, he was stuck with atrocious daytime telly and the utter trash that John called literature.

In all his years, he could never remember being this bored.

Neither could he remember being this desperate to get high.

Sherlock scratched the faded bruise on his arm, and listened carefully for any sounds from downstairs, then checked the time. The communal areas were silent, and John wasn't due for several more hours.

The coast clear, he got up from the sofa and padded quietly to the bathroom, locking the door behind him. Carefully, he lifted the lid off the toilet cistern and fished out a square of pink foam, turning it over to reveal the zip-lock bag taped underneath. He shook off the excess water and slid open the seal, pulling out a box of cigarettes. Opening it, he grimaced in dismay. Four left.

He took one before replacing the whole set up in the cistern, making sure the lid was on straight. Weaning him off the morphine had been enough for Mycroft, but not for John, and the doctor had scoured the whole flat for anything that could possibly contain drugs, leaving only a box of paracetamol and a packet of nicotine gum. He'd even taken the bloody cough mixture and binned an ancient packet of Strepsils, though admittedly that might have had more to do with Sherlock's causal remarks about dropping them in hydrochloric acid than Operation Get Sherlock Clean. Regardless, Sherlock had concluded that if he wanted a cigarette (and by God, he _wanted_ much more than nicotine-laced tobacco, but that would have to do for now), he'd have to hide them, and be careful about it. It was highly unlikely that John would think to check the cistern, and even if he did, he'd probably assume that the pink foam was part of an experiment and not delve any further.

Sherlock clambered onto the bathroom windowsill with a pained hiss, and pushed the window open before lighting his cigarette. He took a heavy drag and expelled the smoke with a sigh, aiming for it to blow out of the window so its odour wouldn't give him away. John's routine after getting back from the surgery was always the same: turn on the kettle, then head to the loo whilst it boiled. Hopefully the bathroom would have aired out by then.

He raised the cigarette back up to his lips. The nicotine helped, it always had, but in an ideal world he'd need to be on the equivalent of nearing thirty-five a day to cope with this level of torturous monotony, and he only had three left. That would have to last him until Friday, when he'd arranged for his local Chinese to slip some in with the prawn crackers that John never ate.

Having smoked the cigarette down as far as he dared (he really didn't want to have to explain to John how his right thumb and forefinger ended up with shiny burns), Sherlock walked over to the sink and stubbed it out on the plughole, then washed the remains down the drain. As he washed his hands and chewed on a piece of spearmint gum, he gave the prospect of waiting serious thought. There were three days before the delivery- one cigarette a day. Could he cope with that?

Sherlock dried his now citrus-smelling hands and sprayed some air freshener in the direction of the window. Very quickly, he decided that the answer was no. The buzz from the cigarette he'd just smoked would probably have dissipated by the time he'd left the bathroom, and then it would be back to having nothing to keep his mind occupied. To Sherlock, the boredom wasn't merely annoying; it was dangerous. If he didn't start doing things (usually crime solving, but more often than not, the 'things' were controlled substances), his mind would latch on to thoughts that he really shouldn't be thinking, and then…

Well, it had happened before, and Sherlock really, _desperately_ , didn't want it to happen again.

So to conclude: no, he couldn't survive on one cigarette a day.

As far as Sherlock could see, he was left with two choices (the choice to go on as he was having been mercilessly abandoned): get out of the flat and onto a case, or get out of the flat and find a reputable dealer. There was no chance of getting a case; Lestrade would never let him onto a crime scene, and John would have his head if he tried to find one privately (if Mycroft didn't get there first, that is). That left the dealer.

Sherlock shut the window and ran a hand through his curls. There wasn't time for him to find a dealer and return to the flat before John did, not with the bloody gunshot wound- as much as he hated to admit it, it was causing him problems, particularly with moving around; problems that couldn't be remedied thanks to John Watson's vendetta against painkillers. No, Sherlock resolved, he'd have to wait one more night, try and get Mrs Hudson out of the building, and find a dealer in the morning. John would be at work all day, and Sherlock could get his fix and come down from the high by teatime. The doctor would never even know he'd left the flat.

Reasonably satisfied, Sherlock checked his watch, and immediately reopened the cistern. Three cigarettes wouldn't last him until Friday, but they'd do until John came home with something else to distract him.

-x- ]=[ ]=[ -x-

At precisely 7:03 am, Sherlock heard John's bedroom door open. He himself had been up since 4:52, studying the file of particularly vexing (and grisly) cold cases he kept hidden in plain sight among his toxicology texts (his flatmate was still very unobservant). Hearing footsteps on the stairs, he shoved the file under his bed and collapsed on top of the mattress, just in time for the expected knock on the door.

"Sherlock?"

The door opened a crack, and Sherlock shut his eyes, careful to even out his breathing. When the door closed again, he waited a few seconds before rolling onto his back. At the sound of the kettle being filled, he began to count.

At 7:36, right on schedule, John entered the bathroom, leaving it three and a half minutes later. Thus, at exactly 7:42, the flat door clicked shut behind the doctor, followed quickly by the front door downstairs. Sherlock waited another fifteen minutes, enough time to ensure that John was definitely on the Tube, and wouldn't be returning to Baker Street for a forgotten Oyster card.

By 8:02, Sherlock was standing at the kitchen table, syringe in hand, poised to inflict grievous bodily harm on the Warburton's family-sized wholemeal loaf (John ate a lot of toast, Sherlock used a lot of toast as petri dishes). It didn't take long to artfully inject the bread with just the right amount of blue food colouring to make it look all nice and mouldy.

The plan was simple. He'd show the bread to Mrs Hudson, bemoaning how he'd really fancied some nice cheese on toast for lunch, and since he couldn't _possibly_ eat mouldy bread, could she be a dear and pop out for another loaf? Oh, and seeing as she was going out, perhaps she could take his best shirt, the one he _accidentally_ covered in ketchup, to the dry cleaners? He'd go himself, of course, but he was still Convalescing.

Anyone else might voice suspicions, but with Mrs Hudson, a woman who'd been practically bending over backwards for him since he'd been discharged?

Fool proof, surely.

Sherlock finished carefully scraping the best before date off the wrapper (it wouldn't do to present 'mouldy' bread that was supposedly good 'til Sunday), and picked up the loaf, padding down the stairs in his dressing gown to knock on the door of 221A.

"Just coming!"

There was the scrape of a bolt being pulled back, and the door opened, revealing Mrs Hudson in her-

In her overcoat? At barely ten-past eight?

Mrs Hudson's face split into a surprised, but warm, smile.

"Good morning, Sherlock! Bit early for you, isn't it?"

"Mrs Hudson!" Sherlock plastered on a charming, and sincerely false, expression of cheer, and held up his bread. "I know it's terribly early, but I was about to make some toast when I noticed that the bread's gone mouldy."

Mrs Hudson frowned, and Sherlock held out a blue-speckled slice for inspection.

"Dear me," she tutted, "the whole loaf?"

Sherlock nodded, and proffered the rest of the bread.

"Well, you're more than welcome to borrow a couple of slices from me, if you don't mind granary; my niece says the seeds are good for you, you know, help with-"

"Thank you, but I was wondering if you wouldn't mind popping out for a new loaf of wholemeal? Only John will be needing some for his sandwiches, and it would save him a trip."

Mrs Hudson pursed her lips and shot a furtive glance down the hall.

"Oh, Sherlock, really; I'm not your errand boy!"

Sherlock stretched his face into the largest fake smile he could.

"Please. I would be _ever_ so grateful."

Mrs Hudson made a noise that was some sort of cross between a sigh and a tut, and picked up her handbag from the little table by her door.

"Alright, just this once." At Sherlock's poorly-disguised look of relief, she added, "Only because I'm going out anyway, mind you; my friend Val, poor dear, she's hurt her back. Fell over one of her cats, apparently." Mrs Hudson shooed Sherlock back down the hall so she could lock her flat. "Can't leave the house, bless her, so I said I'd get a bit of shopping in, you know, some of those microwave meals they do these days.

"Of course," she went on, heading for the front door, "it'll mean I'll be a good few hours, so I hope you weren't expecting to have an early lunch."

"A late lunch will be more than fine, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock said with a smile. "Take as long as you need; I completely understand."

"Bless you, Sherlock." She paused in the doorway for a moment, one eyebrow raised. "Now don't you be getting up to anything while I'm gone!"

"Wouldn't dream of it."

The door clicked shut behind the landlady, and Sherlock sauntered back upstairs to change.

If he'd only known that Mrs Hudson would be going off on some charitable mission, he wouldn't have spent valuable time desecrating a perfectly decent loaf of bread.

Nor would he have ruined his best shirt.

-x- ]=[ ]=[ -x-

When Sherlock opened the front door, package safely secreted in an inside pocket of his coat, he was very pleased to find no trace of footprints in the flour he'd carefully sprinkled on the hall floor on his way out. Mrs Hudson was still out with her friend, the unfortunate ailurophile.

After re-locking the door behind him, he stole nimbly across the now-snowy carpet, and back up to 221B. All was reassuringly as he'd left it- he wouldn't have put it past his brother to send a couple of ninjas from an MI5 special branch in through the bathroom window. Sherlock removed his coat (a dark pac-a-mac he often donned when wanting to pass through the streets incognito) with a poorly concealed wince, and took out the paper bag that had been so much effort to procure.

Jenga, his dealer, hadn't been on his usual turf near the playground by Hampstead Heath, and Sherlock had had to use his homeless network to track him down. Finally, after a very tedious journey in a tube carriage packed with frustratingly transparent tourists, he'd caught up with Jenga outside the Starbucks on Grosvenor Street, only to find that, for once, the dealer wasn't carrying.

Fortunately, Jenga did have plenty of gear stashed under the backseat of his car, and was only too happy to give his 'good mate Shezza' a 'lift home', to the tune of several hundred pounds (cash, naturally).

Sherlock put the paper bag on the coffee table, and went to shove his coat back into the dark corner of his wardrobe that it usually inhabited. When he came back out of his bedroom, sans shoes, and with his dressing gown draped across his shoulders, it was not to a sight he particularly wished to see.

Actually, it was to a sight that he most definitely did _not_ want to see, especially at that particular moment.

Mycroft was sitting in his chair.

Sitting in _his_ chair, Sherlock's paper bag in his lap, twiddling a long, thin object in his pasty fingers.

Sherlock froze at the edge of the room.

"Sherlock," said Mycroft, softly.

It was not the tone of enraged condemnation that Sherlock had been expecting, and he wet his lips slightly.

Mycroft had turned his eyes away from his brother, and was now looking intently at the object his fingers continued to toy with. Momentarily irked at the elegance with which those fingers moved, it took several seconds for Sherlock to realise that Mycroft was playing with a hypodermic syringe.

The same syringe that Sherlock had purchased from Jenga; a syringe, one of several, which had been in the paper bag.

"Interesting move with the flour, brother," Mycroft went on. He spoke as if they were merely discussing chess, and Sherlock had sent his bishop on a particularly brave excursion. "Though I doubt dear Mrs Hudson will look upon her newly-whitened carpet with as fond an eye as I."

Mycroft paused, but when no reply was forthcoming, continued.

"She called John. He already knew she'd be going out, of course, but rather naively thought you'd behave yourself. Mrs Hudson saw that business with the bread- yes," he said, at Sherlock's look of surprise, "I know all about the bread. Anyway, she saw your trick for what it really was, and thought John ought to be informed. He in turn thought you needed a babysitter, so here I am."

Sherlock scowled.

"John was wrong. I'm not a _child_."

Mycroft's eyes snapped back to stare into Sherlock's own. Their heat was painfully at odds with the so-far calm, even nonchalant, exterior.

"John was right."

Mycroft casually tossed the paper bag back onto the coffee table and stood, dropping the syringe alongside it as he stepped over to the window and looked down onto the street below.

"I've tried, Sherlock," he murmured, forcing Sherlock's ears to strain in order to hear him. "We both tried. John and I." He reached up to place his palm flat against the glass. "Weaning you off the morphine; keeping you indoors, away from temptation…

"I've tried so hard, Sherlock. To protect you. To keep you away from all of this. And I know you don't care about me, Lord knows you never have, but I would have thought you'd care about John." A hardness had crept into Mycroft's voice. "That man has been through so much, Sherlock, sacrificed so much for you, and this is how you repay him? By sneaking out of your flat like a petulant teenager, and coming back with a bagful of heroin?"

Sherlock licked his lips again.

"You don't understand."

At Sherlock's proclamation, Mycroft span away from the window, all traces of his usual icy demeanour gone.

"No, Sherlock," he said, making a very obvious effort not to shout, "I don't understand. You have friends, who care about you; you spend your days doing what you've always dreamt of. Why would you throw it all away?"

"I'm not throwing anything away-"

"For heaven's sake, Sherlock, be quiet and listen!" Mycroft raised his voice, abandoning any attempt at reasoned civility.

"No, Mycroft," Sherlock spat, "I've had enough of you, and John, and everyone else treating me like I'm some porcelain marionette, unable to think for myself and in dire need of protection-"

"We've only been doing what's _best_ for you!"

"You've kept me from my work!"

"Because you've been shot! You need time to recover, and haring about London won't do you any good at all." Mycroft ran a hand through his immaculate hair. "Please, Sherlock; _listen_ to me. Drugs aren't the answer."

"Perhaps not, but the two things are practically synonymous."

Mycroft frowned and took a step towards Sherlock.

"I refuse to let you throw your life away." He cut off Sherlock's protestations with a raised hand and quelling look. "Because that is what will happen, Sherlock, if you start using."

Sherlock sneered at him.

"It would hardly be the first time. And oh, look- I'm still here. I need it; I know what I'm doing."

Mycroft shook his head repeatedly, bracing himself on the back of Sherlock's chair.

"You don't. You never have." He laughed humourlessly. "For a while, I thought you did. That this was to be your vice, your refuge, and that you could control it."

"I can control it."

"No. The very fact that you bought heroin, of all things, proves that you can't." Mycroft ran his hand along the chair's dark leatherette, and lowered his tone. "I was wrong, back then; foolish. Still just a boy. I should never have let things get as far as they did. And the worst part, Sherlock, the very worst part, is that if what I'd found in that bag had been marijuana, or even cocaine, I would have let it go. Now what does that say about me? As your brother?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to interject, but Mycroft got in first.

"Don't." He swallowed. "You have no idea what you've done, Sherlock. What you are doing. Perhaps it's through ignorance, perhaps through malice; it matters little. 'You see, but you do not observe'. A fitting dictum for a man who never sees the damage he causes."

Mycroft looked at Sherlock.

"I was there, Sherlock," he said, gravely. "I remember it, so clearly. That night. You called me for help, because you'd made a mistake. You thought you were going to die; you would have died, if I hadn't got to you in time. I would have _lost you_."

Sherlock's instinctive derisive remark died on his tongue at the look on Mycroft's face.

"I thought," Mycroft went on, "in the hospital, after, that we'd finally got somewhere. That you'd at last seen what you were doing to yourself, to the people around you, and you'd stop. For good." He closed his eyes, and took a shaky breath. "But it wasn't to be, was it, Sherlock? You won't stop," he said bitterly, "not for our parents; certainly not for me. Not even for John. A man who would die for you."

Sherlock didn't say a word. His brother passed a hand across his face, recomposing himself. By the time Mycroft straightened and smoothed down his suit, only the defeated hollowness of his eyes could connect him with his next statement.

"I care, Sherlock. About you. I really do." He shook his head sadly. "But I can't help you if you refuse to let yourself be helped, no matter how much I might want to."

He picked up his umbrella from where it leant against the coffee table. In doing so, his eyes fell on the paper bag and syringe.

"I won't do this anymore," he said, after a moment. "If you want my help, you need only ask for it. I'll always be there. But I will no longer try to force it upon you."

Mycroft made for the door, but paused on the threshold. He gestured back at the coffee table.

"I may as well leave those with you." He looked as though he wanted to say something else, but stopped himself. At last, he simply said: "Good day, Sherlock. Brother."

Sherlock watched him leave. He listened to the front door close downstairs. He walked to the window, watched his brother get into a car that then drove off down the street. Watched it turn the corner, and vanish out of sight.

He turned back to the room, and his eyes fell on the back of his chair.

The photograph had been carefully pinned to the leather.

It depicted two boys, one tall and wise-looking, one short with messy dark hair; both in the unmistakable uniform of a boys' boarding school. The short one was scowling at the camera, but the tall one looked at him fondly, his hand placed reassuringly on his companion's shoulder.

Sherlock stared at it.

-x- ]=[ ]=[ -x-

By the time John came home, the syringes had been thrown, unused, out of the bathroom window, and the remaining soluble contents of the paper bag flushed down the toilet.

The photo was safe between the pages of a file of cold cases, hidden in plain sight among his toxicology texts, where nobody would ever think to look.


End file.
